“If my boyfriend comes running in more than an hour and a half late,” making what sounded like a joke out of it, “punch the SOB out for me.”
Boris laughed. He held up a fist the size of a small pumpkin. His hands were cushioned with muscle and crisscrossed with scars, one-shot knockouts waiting to happen.
“I’m good at that. Punching out,” he said. “If that’s what you wish, I will do. You tell me when, and you don’t be afraid of anyone when you with me.”
“Thank you!” she said drunkenly. “I appreciate a gentleman.”
Boris gave her a nod.
“I hear an accent,” Alex said. “Where are you from?”
He held a hand to her. “I’m Boris,” he said. “I’m Russian.”
She feigned surprise again. She held her hand to his. He took it. He had the grip of a professional fighter. Iron. She guessed further Russian ex-military. She uncrossed and crossed her legs to pique his interest.
“I’m Maria,” she lied. “I’m from Mexico.” And deep inside her, she admired her own personal best: Alex, Josephine, and Maria, three IDs in five days, spanning all of North America.
“If you’re from Mexico,” he said, being cautious, “let me hear you speak Spanish.”
“Well, that’s easy,” she laughed. “¿Le apetece tomar algo conmigo? ¿Qué toma?” she said.
“I don’t talk Spanish,” he said. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you wanted to have a drink with me,” she said. “And if so, what?”
He laughed. “I’m Russian. There is only one thing to drink.”
He turned to the bartender and ordered a triple shot of vodka. Stoli all the way.
Conversation ensued. The vodka arrived, three generous shots of about two ounces each, arranged in a tray of crushed ice. Boris toasted her and knocked back the shot with a quick gulp. Then the second.
“Want to see one of my favorite party tricks?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said.
She reached to the third glass, picked it up and held it to her lips. “May I?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
“I dare you,” he said.
“Watch closely,” she said.
Intrigued, he watched as she grabbed a book of matches on the bar.
She struck a match and lit the vodka. She let the flame blaze until it receded beneath the rim of the shot glass. Then she slapped her right palm on the glass and held it tightly there. The flame extinguished and formed a vacuum. She used the suction to pick up the glass without closing her fingers on it. She whirled the drink around to Boris’s delight, defying gravity. Then she used her left hand to pull the glass free. With an upward motion, she tossed the vodka up out of the glass into the air as one would throw a piece of popcorn into one’s mouth. She caught the shot in its entirety and swallowed it in one gulp. Her throat, for a few seconds, felt as if it were on fire. But Boris was, she could see, impressed.
“I have seen soldiers do that, but never women,” he said.
“You have now,” she said. “Hang around and you’ll see me do a lot of things you’ve never seen a woman do.” She snuffed out her cigarette after another drag. “I’m flying,” she said. “I mean, I am really flying. Too much alcohol.” Idly, she wondered what her late Robert would have thought if he could have seen the Slut Girl 101 role she was playing in a hotel bar in Egypt. Then she put it out of her mind. So impressed was Boris that he ordered another set of three shots. Then he took out his matches. He lit all three vodkas. He drew a breath, took a drink of some cold water from the bar. He stood and stepped back.
Then Boris repeated the trick, but using the vodka while it was still flaming. He tossed it high into the air, quickly positioned himself under it and caught it in his mouth. The second shot, the same. Then the third, which was a slight miss and splashed him across the jaw.
He staggered slightly, laughed, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Alex applauded as if drunk out of her mind.
More small talk. The room started to sway a little for Alex, but not as much as her body language tried to show. She wondered how much booze she had consumed in her life for the overall security of the United States of America. She kept crossing and uncrossing her legs. She knew that the fire had been extinguished from the top of the booze, but she had lit one in her target’s gut.
Two shots later, Boris got around to what he wanted to know, “Are you staying here with him?”
“Here with who?” Alex asked.
“Your boyfriend.”
“Oh. Him. No,” she said.
Good, she thought. He’s inquiring about my room arrangement.
In the periphery of her view, she watched Rizzo, who had arrived that morning, walk into the bar and sit down at a table.
“No,” she said to Boris. “He’s at another overpriced hotel. The Hilton. He was supposed to meet me here, and then we were going to go out. But he’s stood me up, you know that, Boris? You know how much it hurts a woman to be stood up?”
She took on a dispirited expression. “He probably went chasing after a younger girl,” she said. “So why should I care?”
“You’re here alone?”
“On business. For three days. Then I go on to Athens, then back to Miami. That’s where I live. Miami. The new capital of Cuba.”
Boris was more than intrigued. Alex slurred slightly, then took another sip of the wine that still sat in front of her. Her hand was shaky, and she spilled a few drops.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m bothering you. I should leave.”
“No, no, no,” he said, amused. “You’re not bothering. Please stay.”
“I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”
“You’re very beautiful,” he said again.
She looked away. “I don’t feel beautiful. I feel rejected. That’s how I feel. I hate being alone. I’m almost thirty,” she said.
“You could pass for five years younger.” He placed a hand on her bare thigh to steady her. The touch went through her like a shock, but she went along with it. His hand was every bit as strong as it looked. If things went the wrong way, this was going to be real trouble.
“You’re kind,” she said.
He glanced at the small bandage on her arm, the one that covered the vestiges of the bullet grazing.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“My boyfriend gets rough with me sometimes,” she said. “He’s a pig.”
That seemed to turn Boris on. Alex looked him in the eye. She had had her experiences with post-Soviet Moscow-style hoods, and this was another one. In a previous generation, Boris’s station in life would have been as one of the thick-browed KGB security gorillas who would stand by the door in a leather jacket to keep the trade delegates from going AWOL. These days, in the buoyant Putin-era consumer culture of workers-of-the-world-shop-till-you-drop, the same tough boys developed a taste for Swiss watches, German cars, and French cologne, while they pursued North American women.