There was another knock.
"Mr. Kodiak? I am coming inside. Please do not hurt me."
The voice was male, and had an accent. Russian. Or perhaps Ukrainian.
I didn't say anything, and the knob turned and the door swung open, and the man who stepped into the room was anything but average-sized. He was tall enough so that Bridgett would have had to look up to meet his eyes, two small, intense pebbles set deep and wide in a broad face. His nose was flat, with a ridge of scar tissue all along the bridge, and the shape of his mouth was defined and exaggerated by a sharp goatee, black hair. His head had been shaved sometime in the past few weeks, and the stubble along the dome of his skull made it seem like the top of his head had been smeared with charcoal dust. He looked in his mid-thirties, perhaps older, and he came through the door easily, his hands held casually at his waist, palms turned out to show me they were empty. He wore black jeans and work boots and a thin leather jacket that was unzipped and fell to below his hips. His T-shirt warned that it wasn't safe to mess with a big dog.
I adjusted my sights, raising to his head. He had big and strong down, but I didn't know about fast yet. Still, anyone wearing a leather jacket on a day like today was making a statement, declaring either that they didn't notice little things like heat and humidity, or that image was far more important than comfort.
My gut told me this guy didn't give a rat's ass about the weather.
He stepped inside, craning his head slightly, searching for me. When he finally spotted me against the wall, my gun on him, he smiled broadly and gave me a little nod.
"Hello."
"Close the door," I said.
"Sure, I was going to do that." He shut the door, showing me his back, then turned and motioned to the Murphy bed. "Should I sit down?"
"Not yet. Take off the jacket, slowly."
"Sure," he said again, softer, and he removed the jacket, dropping it to the floor.
"Hands on your head, lace your fingers and turn around."
He shrugged, did as I ordered. I couldn't see any weapons on him, no wires, nothing that looked like a radio.
"Now you can sit down," I said. He started for the bed and I let him get halfway there before adding, "There's fine."
"You want me to sit on the floor?"
"You got it."
Another shrug, and he got on the floor.
I stayed against the wall, keeping my eyes and the gun on him, until I reached the door.
"I already locked it for you." He watched me reach for the knob. "I'm not here to hurt you."
"Thanks," I said, and checked the door anyway. He was telling the truth about the lock. I moved away from it, farther down the wall, keeping ten feet between us, and readjusting my sights on him. "She sent you?"
" 'Tasha?"
"If that's what she calls herself."
" 'Tasha sent me, yes."
"And who are you?"
"She told me to come here and take you someplace."
"I've already figured that much out. Who are you?"
"Dan."
"You're Russian, Dan?"
"Ah, no, I am Georgian."
"Georgian, sorry. So Dan is short for, what, Danilov?"
He looked pleased. "That is right, yes."
"How do you know 'Tasha?"
"She is my friend."
I decided not to laugh.
Dan checked his watch, a big platinum thing around his left wrist, then started to get back to his feet. "We need to go."
"I didn't tell you to get up," I said.
The implied threat didn't stop him, which told me either that he wasn't afraid of taking a bullet, or that he knew Drama's leverage on me was such that my threat was a hollow one. He bent down and took his jacket, shaking it once to make certain that nothing from the floor was polluting it, then put it back on and made for the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob, smiled at me again.
"Please," Dan said. "We go now or else we are late. You can keep your guns."
And he went out the door, leaving me to follow.
Chapter 15
Dan had a platinum-colored Mercedes-Benz Kompressor convertible that perfectly matched the color of his watch, and he drove it with the top down, oblivious to the threat of rain. The stereo was cranked just below painfully loud, rap music that Dan liked to share with everyone we passed. He drove with one hand, his left arm hanging over the door, thumping on the car in time with the beat.
"You want a drink, Mr. Kodiak?" he asked when we stopped at the first light.
"I'm fine," I said.
He twisted and reached into the space behind my seat, feeling around. The light changed and he glanced up, then let out the clutch and started us forward, using his thighs to control the wheel. It took him a couple more seconds to find what he was looking for, and he turned back around now holding two dripping cans of Bud Light in one hand. He dropped one of the cans into my lap, where the icy water instantly was absorbed by my pants, and then used his teeth to pop the tab on the other one. He still wasn't using his hands to steer the car.
I wondered what would happen if we got pulled over for having open containers, then took my can and set it again behind my seat.
Dan laughed and lit himself a cigarette, and when he caught me looking at him, asked, "What?"
"You're surprising."
He drained what must have been half of his beer before asking, "Why?"
"She's not this sloppy."
He grew instantly serious. "Oh, no, Mr. Kodiak. I am not sloppy. I know where there are police in Brooklyn and where there are not, and there are none in our way. 'Tasha, she trusts me to do what she asks."
"And what has she asked you to do with me?"
He smiled and didn't answer, and when the next song started, he sang along.
We ended up in Brighton Beach, which wasn't astonishing, since it's one of the major enclaves of the Russian mob in New York City, and Dan had "mafiya" stamped all over him. He stopped us outside of a bodega not too far from Coney Island Hospital, parking the car illegally right in front and then hopping out as soon as the engine died. He waited courteously for me to join him on the sidewalk, then held the glass door into the store wide for me, following close behind as I entered.
It wasn't a very nice bodega, dusty groceries stacked sloppily on the shelves, and the fruit and vegetables on display looked minutes from rotting. The cashier worked behind a smudged bullet-proof screen, and was a teen girl with bright red lipstick and eye shadow that made her whole face look tubercular.
Dan put a hand on my shoulder, gently, guiding me forward, and said something to the girl in Russian or Ukrainian or Georgian. Her response was surly, and he raised his voice at her, and she didn't say anything more, though she flicked two fingers his way in a gesture that could be universally translated.
At the back of the store was a steel door, and Dan reached past me to push it open, then gave me a shove through. The back room was twice as large as the store, and two other men were seated at a Formica table there, watching the Mets play baseball on a flat-screen television that had been propped on some cardboard boxes. The boxes had labels of different electronics manufacturers. Neither of the men looked our way.
A flight of stairs ran up to the left, and Dan indicated I was to start climbing, so I did. Best as I could figure, Drama just wanted me moved around right now, and my guess was that I'd get shuffled about for a while before we got to settle down.
I found myself in a carpeted reception area, with peeling wallpaper of yellow and orange flowers, three new leather couches, and a desk. An air conditioner whirred in a nearby window whose glass had been covered with orange paint. The carpet was green, an old shag peppered with stains.
Behind the desk sat an overweight white woman in her forties, wearing a hot pink tank top that revealed the fact she'd gone braless for the day. She had a can of Diet Coke beside her, a telephone, an intercom, and an open copy of one of the Russian-language dailies. She sat waiting for us with a bored expression that lasted until she saw Dan. Then she smiled.