Burn Artist

Chapter 8

Naturally, I desired to see the results of my handiwork.

I spent the rest of the night disposing of my equipment, one piece at a time. I filed the security guard’s pistol, pulled it apart and drove a big circle across the Brooklyn Bridge and back to throw bits and pieces out the window and into the water. Gowanus was always a good place to dump things; so was East Williamsburg. Everything went overboard: shoes, gloves, coveralls, wig. It was coming up on dawn by the time I was done. I used the last of the gas to drive to a friendly scrapyard, where I filled in a form under a fake name and sent my temporary ride to the shredder. Back to my blond, short, white-eyed self, I took the subway back to Gateway Apartments, set up in front of the office across the road with a newspaper and a cup of coffee, and waited for the fireworks.

At a quarter to eight, there was a dull crumpling sound. The road vibrated briefly under my feet in the split second before a dozen car alarms went off all at once down in the depths of the parking garage. I jumped up as people stopped, cars slowed, and the parking garage spewed a cloud of black smoke around the people fleeing the fire.

Another advantage of being short is being able to blend into crowds, but it wasn’t much good when you were trying to see what was happening at the front. As escapees gathered by the entry to the apartments and sirens wailed, I stood up on tiptoes and anxiously searched for my mark. When he stumbled out up from the ramp – crispy around the edges, but very much alive – I let out a tense breath, turned, and pushed my way back through the knot of gawkers, heading toward the World Trade Center and Cortlandt Street train station beneath. The subway was packed, the crowd swirling enough to make me nauseous. I was sick with fatigue and thirst, and well overdue for sleep.

I got off at Brighton Beach station and walked several blocks to my apartment, stumbling into a wall on the way up. I exited the stairwell onto my floor, yawning, and was hit with the pungent smell of male urine and trash. It bought me up cold.

“Oh for God’s sake…” My fears were confirmed when I reached my door and found it streaked with and wet with urine. My trashbag was torn open on the welcome mat. Grigori had pissed over that, too. There were gouge marks around my lock, but he’d been too intoxicated to finish whatever he’d planned to do.

Flushed with anger, I checked around the corner to make sure he wasn’t still lurking in the building with his sledgehammer, then set my workbag down with a sigh and started to pick everything up. There was more than one reason I always wore gloves, and most of those reasons related back to Grigori fucking Sokolsky.

A huge storm broke in the late evening, waking me before my alarm. The rumble of thunder, loud as gunshot, started me out of a dream that had been rolling me down and under a wave of dark, hot anger. I scrambled upright in the sheets, flailing across for my knife. Lighting flashed beyond my window, briefly illuminating the room, and alarm turned to awe as I relaxed and listened to the rain drumming against the window. Then, I remembered Slava’s amulet, still sitting on the roof. In between the rush to do Rodion’s job as quickly as possible and cleaning my father’s piss of my front door with a bucket of bleach water and a squeegee, I’d forgotten all about it.

I called Sirens and arranged the meet with Nic, got ready, and let Sir Purrs-A-Lot inside for the night. The cat, as usual, wanted nothing to do with me, so I let him into Vassily’s room and then set out for the drive to Queens.

The club was busier on a Thursday, though nowhere near weekend capacity. One woman gyrated around and arched against the tall pole on the center stage, dancing for a thin crowd of diehard perverts and wannabe pimps. She was not nearly as good as Crina.

My brat’ye[21] were at their regular table, belting out songs as a unit and banging their glasses on the counters in a vague approximation of tempo. I searched the room for Grigori before I joined them, doing my best to swell in size on my approach. He was not there, to my great relief.

“Haha, look who’s here! Alexi, my man!” Rodion stood to greet me, hands spread. I went to him, kissed cheeks, and then did the same with the others.

“Have you seen the papers yet, you ballsy son-of-a-bitch?” Vassily said. He was still mostly sober. Of all of our ‘brothers’, he was inevitably the most temperate.

“No time,” I replied. I pulled the amulet from my breast pocket, and handed it out to Vyacheslav. “Slava, here.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t look especially thankful, and fiddled with it before slipping it into his breast pocket instead of over his head.

“You’re supposed to wear it.” I stared at him, speaking slowly.

He did at least have the courtesy to look embarrassed. “Oh.”

While he fiddled with the pendant, I turned my attention back to Vassily. “Was the explosion in the news?”

“You bet it was in the fucking news.” Vassily motioned to the seat beside him. I sat down, and Lev took up the paper and slid it down to us.

“Page three,” he said.

My lips quirked as I picked it up and flipped it open, scanning the headline and text. “A car exploded in a Battery Park community Tuesday morning in what appears to be a random act of arson, injuring several people and causing hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of damage to the Gateway Apartments complex. The owner of the vehicle, Jacob Maslak, says that the car exploded and then caught on fire when he went to unlock the vehicle for his usual morning commute.”

“Wait wait,” Rodion said. “Read the part about the people that did it.”

“Hmm…” I searched the columns. “Ah, here we are. When asked whether or not the bombing appeared to be an act of terrorism, New York Police Department spokesman Garry Koln said: “This crime has some hallmarks of a terrorist attack. Fortunately, the explosion was only small, and it only resulted in minor injuries to those surrounding the car. We believe it may be related to Italian organized criminal activities.”

“The best professional is the one who tricks everyone into thinking someone else is a fool.” Vassily put his arm around my shoulder, and I felt the skin of my back lift with gooseflesh under the weight.

Everyone laughed, so I arched my eyebrows and continued. “In their efforts to catch the arsonist, the NYPD is working with the newly formed Vigiles Magicarum, an FBI agency dealing with crimes of an unusual nature, due to several exotic elements found at the crime scene. Police report they are looking for a well-built white male – possibly of Italian or Mediterranean ethnicity – in his early thirties, six-foot tall, brown haired and dark brown or blue eyes.”

That earned another round of laughter. Down the row, Slava pulled his collar out and began to fan himself with another one of the newspapers.

“How the fuck did you manage to grow five inches, Alexi?” Petro said. “You’re the shortest motherfucking man in New York.”

“I am not,” I replied, throwing the paper down onto the table. “Danny DeVito is. As for your question… no comment.”

“Everyone knows Danny DeVito is actually three babies in a trenchcoat, Lexi,” Vassily said, and handed me a glass that had been waiting beside his. “What’s your excuse?”

“I’ll never tell.” I accepted the drink without hesitation, and threw half of it back in a long swallow. It was water, not vodka… though no one but Vassily and I would know that.

“So now, Lev, Nic and Grisha just have to go visit Maslak tomorrow.” Rodion lifted his glass and drank as well, followed promptly by everyone else. “Make sure the little worm knows it’s business as usual. What’s the timeline for the sell-off, Lev?”

“The stocks are rising precipitously in value, thanks to Vasya.” Lev looked alongside at Vassily. “He’s the one to ask.”

“We’ve already doubled. I’m expecting at least another hundred-and-fifty percent rise,” Vassily said. “We might even double it over again. People are going nuts for this anti-aging stuff… I’ve got Yegor Gavrilyuk on it on one side. He’s farmed out the speculation to guys in Miami, Texas and LA, three big cities with lots of old people that wish they were young again. Me and Semyon are working together in the office with the brokers to make sure that the stocks get snapped up by prospectors. The point you decide to cash out depends on your tolerance for risk, Avtoritet.”

“You know me,” Rod replied “Go big or go home.”

“Hey, Nic… can we turn the aircon on?” Vyacheslav was still fanning himself, flushed red in the face. “It’s hot as hell in here.”

Nicolai looked at him, puzzled. “It is on.”

“What’s the matter, Slava?” Semyon’s moustache bristled with mirth. “You’re hardly halfway done on that bottle, and you’re hot already?”

“Hey, I got started at lunchtime.” Slava laughed uncomfortably, and got to his feet. He was flushed in the face and sweating profusely, sweat staining his collar. “Maybe my blood’s finally turned into vodka.”

“The only solution to that is more drink, my good friend.” Rod poured him another glass from the nearly-empty bottle on the table, and the rest of us followed suit. Diluted, I could tolerate the liquor for a single toast. “Fight fire with fire! Down the hatch!”

Slava caught up the glass, still standing, and drained it before slamming it back down. He shook his head with a short laugh, then sagged forward against the edge of the table.

“Woah, there. That’s the end of the night for you.” Vassily laughed as the other man nearly fell against his knees.

“Gotta go take a piss,” Slava mumbled. He staggered out around the end of the table, nearly colliding with Lev, who leaned back with a polite grimace. A smell strung my nostrils, weird and waxy, and the skin on the back of my neck crawled with a half-formed flash of insight quickly followed by horror.

“Slava! Wait!” I got up, nearly shoving Vassily aside. “Something’s fighting against the amulet—”

I’d barely got out from around him when Slava reeled on his feet, collapsed against the edge of the bar, and burst into flame.