Burn Artist

Chapter 4

I followed my Avtoritet from the security office – a twin suite of plain plasterboard and fluorescent tube lighting – to the VIP manager’s office upstairs. Every man who’d been through here in my lifetime had done up the place differently. Sergei Yaroshenko, our founding patriarch and Pakhun,[13] the real boss of the organization, had renovated the office in gold and purple. He was responsible for the purple carpet in the upstairs lounges. When he'd left us to our devices and traveled back to Ukraine to manage our continental branch, Rodion had come into leadership. He and Lev were the muscle and the brains, and despite their differences, they’d created a good, stable platform for us to do business.

In line with his fixation on the 1950’s, Rodya’s office was a shrine to muscle cars and Elvis. His pride and joy was his jukebox collection, three of which were installed in his office. He went straight to the largest of them, a rainbow arch of neon and gleaming chrome, and affectionate patted the side of the machine before he began to dial in his music of choice.

“Tell it to me straight, Alexi,” he said, his back facing me. “Slava's going to die, isn't he?”

I took the edge of my seat across from his desk, folding my hands in my lap. They felt strange after their brief exposure to the air, cold and furry. I rubbed them against one another to try and bring them back to normal. “It's possible. This curse is quite a serious piece of magic. Powerful. Sustained. I can't imagine it is going to do him any good if it is activated.”

“Will your sorcery help?”

“The talisman may soak some of the impact. I lay a tracking spell over the curse,” I said. “There's no way to un-make the curse now that it's embedded in his… life-force, I guess you could say. It's like a virus. Once you've caught it, you caught it. If there is a way to tear it free, I don't know it.”

Needle touched to vinyl, and the minimalistic strains of Heartbreak Hotel filled the small room. Rodya turned it down to background level, and then plopped down into his desk chair with a sigh, tipping his head and leaning back.

I cleared my throat. “With all respect intended, Avtoritet… why was Slava hit?”

“Good question,” he said.

“You know who might have done it.”

“I might. But I'm not talking about this without a drink.” Rodion spun around on his chair and straightened up. I watched unhappily as he set out two glasses taken from a drawer, and poured me half a glass of Borovička, a horrible juniper spirit that looked and smelled like turpentine. Cheap liquor had a nauseating acrid, violet smell, a synesthetic odor that the juniper did nothing to help. And I had to drink it. I could turn down a drink from anyone else in the Organizatsiya, but Rodya was the penultimate authority.

“To good health, and no more fucking curses.” He raised his glass, and I suppressed a grimace as I did the same and took a reluctant sip. My Avtoritet threw back half the glass before he came up for air.

“Now, I don't know for sure, but I'm about ninety percent convinced that I know who did this.” Rodya's boar eyes gleamed above his ruddy cheeks as he leaned forward, drink in hand. “If I am right, though, this is a pretty big job. And if you breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you to anyone – anyone – I'll kill you myself. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” I said, leaning back. “My discretion is absolute, Avtoritet. Give me a quick rundown.”

“Right. So, at the beginning of the year, we adopted this little pharma business by name of CelGen,” he said, setting his glass down. “It’s one of those stupid little yuppie start-ups; they research anti-aging drugs and shit like that. Guy that heads it up is named Jacob Maslak. He's from San Fran, originally, and he heard about us from guys I know over there. He came to me and borrowed some money from us to get this thing off the ground. He got a board together, did prospect reports and everything. Made a big song and dance about it.”

“I see.”

“When it was time to claim on his loan, of course the asshole can’t pay me back. Seven hundred and fifty K, Alexi.” Rodion sneered, and rolled his eyes as he lounged back into the chair again. “I talked to Lev and Vassily about killing him or roughing him up, but Vassily had a great idea. Really great. He said that instead of trying to shake him for the money he doesn’t have, we turn CelGen into a pump and dump. The company went to shit within a year and their stocks are worthless, pennies on the dollar, but the anti-aging thing is easy to sell to people with money. Vassily said that we loop in our brokers, pay them off to hype the stocks until they’re up like two-fifty, three-hundred percent, and then we cash out. We front half, Maslak fronts half – way less than what he owed me – and the proceeds go to us and the brokers to cover this idiot’s loan and interest.”

Inwardly, I smiled. It was exactly the kind of clever, bloodless solution that Vassily would suggest. Outwardly, I kept my business face on. “And is Maslak now getting cold feet?”

“Worse than that,” Rodion said. His eyes were black with manic intensity. “The little son of a bitch is trying to threaten us. Says he’s got new scary friends who will help him cut and run unless we split him half the money. We’re talking three, four million dollars here… the rat hasn’t even paid back his original loan, and he wants two million and change? Fuck him.”

“Guy has chutzpah.”[14] I had another tiny sip of Borovička. It was like drinking pine-scented toilet cleaner. “Too much chutzpah for his ongoing health, I presume. Do you want him buried?”

“I want my fucking money. You need to convince him to stay in the deal. I want you to scare the piss out of him, and I want him to know that he’s dealing with people that can kill him any way we want. Guns, explosions, magic. I want him to feel like there’s nothing he can do that’s going to keep him safe from me. But I want him alive.”

Pressing my lips together, I looked down as I considered my options. “I can do it. If it comes to putting out a contract, is it an open or an exclusive deal?”

“Exclusive if you think you can pull it off.”

I was almost insulted. “Of course I can. What’s the pay for the scare?”

“Ten K,” Rodion grunted. “Plus commission when we cash out.”

I really wasn't happy about working on commission, but at the same time the money that the management paid me for larger, messier jobs had to come from somewhere. I made a show of thinking about it, and then nodded and spread my hands.

“Alright,” I said. “Expenses paid?”

Rodion grinned, flashing a mouthful of gold teeth. “Of course. What kind of man do you think I am?”

A conflicted, bombastic man who forbade me from standing up to my father because it makes him uncomfortable. “A generous employer,” I said. “When do you need it done by?”

“As soon as possible.” he replied. “I'd prefer that it was done before Saturday.”

Saturday? As in, three days from now? I frowned. “I'm sorry, Avtoritet, but if you want a major spectacle to occur before Saturday, you're going to have to pay me more than ten thousand dollars. At least fifteen, plus commission to cover the risk. An operation on Saturday means I only have a day for reading and planning, maybe one for surveillance, and one for the operation.”

“You're a tough man, Alexi Sokolsky,” he said. “So tell you what. I'll agree to that provided I pay you only half up front, and the other half once the job is done. If the job is done before my birthday party on Saturday. You lose three grand per day, every day after that.”

I nodded. “Agreed. Write me down his details, and I’ll start tomorrow. Home and work address, everything.”

“I’ll leave it on Nic’s desk. Go join the others and have some fun for the time being, eh?” He smiled pleasantly – as pleasant as a hammerhead shark in human form ever could be described as pleasant – and we shook hands and kissed cheeks. I stood and let myself out of the office, followed by the voice of the King as he crooned his way through Suspicious Minds.

Fun, he said. If I was lucky, Vassily hadn’t taken up the opportunity to party in the nightclub… but when I reached the security office, I saw that my fortunes had failed me. He and the other men who’d been in the office were still gone. That meant they were in the front of house: specifically, the bar and the center stage.

Resigned, I went into Nicolai’s office and scrounged through boxes of ammunition and old paperwork until I found some earplugs. I put them in, and then took a tin of Altoids from my pants pocket, popped the lid, and folded two of them into my mouth. Peppermint oil was one of the more reliable methods to turn the acute agony of loud music into a dull roar.

Sirens was a strip club, first and foremost, but it did have a dance floor and surprisingly good acoustics that also attracted a small disco crowd. The sound of The Jets pounding through the walls was muffled by the earplugs, but I could feel it in my teeth. Bass throbbed on my tongue in choking waves, thick as Karo syrup. Treble caused screechy, needle-like pinpricks of pain all the way down my throat. Synesthesia was truly the worst superpower in the world.

I stepped out into the wall of sound and the blast of fans. Even on a Wednesday, the place was hopping at three a.m. The smaller parlors and the main stage were occupied and surrounded by a thin crowd of eager men, as were the shower booths – boxed stages where girls danced in bikini bottoms and pretended to clean themselves as they pressed various body parts to the Perspex walls. I glanced at them on the way past, mostly out of habit, and continued to where I knew my colleagues were going to be.

Between the bar and the stairs leading up to lap-dance rooms was a corner booth with a long padded bench and small tables currently cluttered with bottles and ashtrays. To my relief, there was no sign of Grigori. Vassily and the others were laughing uproariously, cheering on Slava while he got head from a dancer pulling him a favor.

I slunk in around the edge of the night’s entertainment, taking a seat beside Vassily. He was all too eager to switch his attention from Slava to me. “Hey, Lexi! How’d you go?”

“Interesting night.” I fixedly ignored what was happening down the row, and found my eyes drawn to the catwalk. Three girls were finishing up their set: a busty blonde cowgirl, and two tall, thin Grace Jones lookalikes in bikinis that left nothing to the imagination. I settled for staring at the floor between my knees instead. “I have to head back. There’s work to do.”

“And I’m going to court on Monday and want to have some fun, so I’m gonna stick here for at least a couple hours,” Vassily shouted over the music. “You head home if you want, man. I’ll follow you later.”

“Ladies and gentleman, new to Sirens and all the way from Germany… Crina Jay!” The MC’s blurry microphone was nearly drowned out by the beat.

It was hard to articulate why the notion of leaving disappointed me. Maybe it was that I was twenty-five and wanted nothing more than to finish the book I was reading at home, while everyone here had the ‘real fun’ that I’d never understood. Maybe it was because Vassily was going to court soon, and he was enjoying himself and would enjoy himself more if I stayed. Maybe it was because it felt like I was running away.

The boppy music had shifted to something harsh and minimalistic, a transitional beat spun by the DJ. I fought past the reserve, and lifted my head to say that I was leaving just as Vassily elbowed me in the arm. Confused, I followed the jerk of his head and his quizzical expression.

A tiny woman in very high heels and a very severe bun was striding down the catwalk that led to the poles on the center stage, dressed in a full-length gray wool greatcoat. She was unsmiling, her pretty, boxy face hard and sultry behind a fine black lace veil. Her unorthodox appearance had silenced the whole club, drawing titters from a few of the men in our corner. For the first time I could remember, I found myself curious. The dancers often wore coats out back, but I’d never seen a girl fully dressed on-stage before.

As her song began to play – Laura Branigan, I was sure of it – Crina spun lazily around the pole, once, and then tore the coat open and threw it the ground on the second time around. She was still mostly dressed underneath: corset, thigh-highs and knee-length skirt, all black and glittering under the cheap stage lights. She flung a leg up along the pole, stretching herself up until she was in full splits, and leaned forward from her hips until her head touched her toes.

He says that he can read my mind, the power to turn iron into gold…

She says she’s seen the other side, and knows the place the fire burns all night…

“Well… uh…” Vassily blinked several times. “I uh… guess this is the new girl Rod was talking about.”

I found myself smiling, just a flicker at the corner of my mouth as this new woman stalked around the pole like an Art Deco sculpture, hooking her ankle and twirling herself around and then up… and soon, I found myself captivated as she clung with her legs and shed the gloves one at a time, throwing them down into the gathering crowd with the subtle challenge and sudden alacrity that she’d shed her coat. Once they were off, the dancing really started, and Crina flung herself around the pole, her skirt managing to cover her crotch at strategic moments, climbing up until she was almost to the ceiling. She straightened out there, and undulated back down horizontally, as if running in slow-motion through water. It was not something I’d seen anyone here do before. Her slender muscularity was evident, and when she swirled around and touched the floor, light as a fairy, I saw her tuck the balls of her feet and arch her heel. She was ballet-trained.

“Wow.” Vassily rubbed his hand over his mouth and jaw. “We must be getting classier or something, because—”

“Quiet.” I didn’t want to be distracted.

The audience was crowding up around this woman, hands waving bills as she crawled forward on her knees, unlacing her corset as she went. She tore it open and shoved it down as she reached the edge of the stage, snaking out and forward so that she could accept the first round of offerings down her cleavage.

Vassily shoved at me. “Go up and tip her, Lexi.”

“Well, I don’t know if I need to do that…” I didn’t look across at him, too busy watching Crina roll sinuously across the stage.

“Seriously, man, I’ve never seen you look at a chick like this. Go get her, for reals.”

He was thinking sex: I was thinking power. Her song was about magic, and as she flirted with revealing her breasts – never quite showing anything – and turned into a broadside splits with her head turned, eyes dark and intense from over her shoulder, my smile broadened. Tiny as she was, she commanded the room… and I knew a fellow ceremonial artist when I saw one.

Quite abruptly, I rose and pushed toward the stage. Jeering and cheers followed from behind me. As if I’d never spoken to a woman in my life… I’d never had sex with a woman – that was true – but the approach had never been the hard part.

I had to strategically elbow larger, hornier men out of my way to get where I could be seen, just in time to watch the lady launch back into air. She arched backwards, practically upside down, and dropped her corset to the stage with a thump. It left her in her lingerie and garters, which she made full use of when she dropped back down to collect her next round of tips, crawling like Catwoman on hands and toes. For a moment, she met my eyes, and I saw hers widen in the second before I held up a folded twenty in my gloved fingers. I tapped my watch and motioned toward the stairwell with my head, and she gave a subtle nod on her way across. She was expecting to give me a lap dance. I wanted to talk, and the money was the same either way.

Her eyes hooded, and she rolled her scarlet lip under her teeth on her way across to me. I made to feed it under her garter, but she leaned in toward me and very delicately, very deliberately took the note between her teeth. We were eye to eye for a few seconds, and then her ass was where her head had been, and I was suddenly able to count the rhinestones sewn into the seat of her panties.

She turned to look at me, smiling enigmatically, before her expression froze and then, briefly, dropped. My instincts kicked me in the stomach, and I smelled something sour in the second before I saw my father’s shadow sway into view. He was tall enough that he didn’t have to press in close to the stage the way I had, but he was working through to the front anyway. I heard him snarl at someone and push them out of his way. He wasn’t even within five feet of me, and I could still smell how drunk he was.

My heart sped. The momentary satisfaction of connecting with the woman on stage disappeared as my stomach dropped out. Before Grigori could see me, I pushed back and wove through the pack in the opposite direction to his approach. My father was drunk, randy, and practically guaranteed to pick a fist-fight with me on the stage if he saw me flirting with the woman he had his eye on. Crina, sensible creature that she was, strode back to her pole and clung to it like a dryad fleeing to her oak tree. She had a good instinct for self-preservation. Six and a half feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds, my father radiated violence and filth wherever he went.

I tried to believe I was retreating for everyone’s sake, that if he had picked anything with me, I’d have put him to the ground and kicked him for good measure. For that matter, if killing him wouldn’t spell the end of my career and totally ostracize me from my peers, I’d have done it years ago.

It was no good. I’d never been a slick liar, even to myself. As I slunk through the door and into the empty concrete halls of the back-of-house, I knew in my heart that the abused child in me had run away from his father, again, and the victory belonged to him.