Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“OOH! The crowd moaned at once, as the largest seal had slid across the floor and was relieving himself near one of the marble pillars. Fully, it appeared.

“Excuse me!” I said to Loretta. “I’m going to go downstairs to the kitchen and see if I can find the whiskey I hid there last week.”

“Oh!” she said. “Bring me some, love.”

“Where you going?” said Bobby.

“I’ll be right back.”

When I got to the kitchen, which was full of cooking staff and waiters cursing in Russian, German, Spanish, and French, I found the box of whiskey in the cupboard way above the sink, but I hadn’t run into Sergei in the hallway as I’d hoped. The whiskey was actually a gift I’d gotten for the ambassador for his birthday next month on January 25, but being that he’d still be gone then, I decided to use it for something else.

After nearly knocking over a busboy carrying a massive silver tray full of caviar—freshly shipped in from the Caspian Sea per young Thayer’s explicit orders—I began searching the mansion high and low, but couldn’t find the son of a bitch. I knew he was out and about because when I’d seen him earlier, he was dressed in a suit and shaking hands with all of the Soviet dignitaries who’d shown up, perhaps before they headed off to Litvinov’s house.

Grabbing my coat, hat, and gloves, I headed outside and searched the grounds, saying hello to the various marines along the way, one of whom was near the work shed fondling a young woman. I recognized her as one of the many ballerinas who’d been a constant presence at Spaso since I’d arrived some months back. Bullitt was the one who wanted them around, and now, with him gone, they were keeping the marines from doing their jobs. I was betting they were spies for NKVD. How effective they were, however, only time would tell.

I finally headed to the garage, which had no marine standing guard. I opened the side door and it was dark inside. Flipping on the lights, I realized my search had come to a conclusion, for sitting inside Bullitt’s prized possession was Sergei; his wife was in the passenger’s seat. I was certain the ambassador had not given them permission to smoke cigarettes and drink wine in his roadster, but there they were.

“Comrade Sweet!” said a surprised Sergei, opening the door and hopping out, his olive skin covered in sweat, which was surprising considering it was about twenty degrees outside, though not nearly that cold inside the garage. Even his mustache was glistening with moisture.

“Hello, Sergei!” I said.

“I was showing my wife the ambassador’s beautiful car,” he nervously said in English. “She never saw such an automobile. She wanted to… how do you say… pretend ! Yes! Pretend we were driving real fast in the country! But, of course, we did not start the automobile. No keys!”

He smiled and sipped his wine. I looked at his lips, which had his wife’s lipstick smeared all over them. I looked down at her, then quickly away, as she was casually pulling her panties up, her bright red dress still bunched up at the waist, her brown hair much more ruffled than it had been earlier.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “The ambassador doesn’t need to know about this. You were simply trying to get away from all of the chaos inside. I can understand that.”

“I’m so appreciative, Comrade Sweet.” He was practically bowing over and over, begging me with his eyes not to tell on him, a far cry from the short-tempered jackass he’d shown himself to be in the past.

“Yes, Comrade Sweet, it’s chaos inside. I’ve never seen so many people.”

“Do you recognize most of the Russian guests?”

“Yes, I mean, I don’t know them all, but I have read about them in Izvestiya .”

“What are some of their professions? What do they do for work, besides the obvious ones who work at the Kremlin?”

“Ah, Comrade Sweet!” He shook his head like he didn’t want to tell me. “I don’t—”

“You don’t want me to tell the ambassador that you were in his car. We’ve established that. Now just tell me about the guests.”

“Okay. Only two are from the Kremlin!”

“Only two?” I said. “Maybe Stalin sent them to take notes.”

He half blushed and continued. “Others are local scientists. Some are teachers at the universities. I recognize a couple of artists and musicians, some sculptors. But, of course you know, eighty percent of the people here are just expatriate Americans along with your friends from the chancery. And some of the foreigners are journalists or maybe, you know, diplomats, visiting here to better their relations with our great Stalin.”

“Thank you.” I held up the box of whiskey and eyed the ring of keys hanging from his waist just inside his jacket. “And now let me tell you why I was looking for you, Sergei. I wanted to give you your Christmas gift. A bottle of Redbreast Irish! For you to enjoy with your lovely wife.”

“Oh my! You are far too kind, Comrade Sweet.”

I handed it to him and he gladly accepted, extending both arms up at me like a little boy, overjoyed to be receiving a gift from his father on Christmas morning. I was every bit of six-two, but had never felt so tall.

“You must come sit with us and toast to Christmas Eve,” he said, smiling from ear to ear and taking my arm. “Come! You can sit behind the wheel and Anya can sit on my lap in the passenger’s seat. Come!”

He opened my door and I got in before he circled the front of the car and signaled for his wife to get out, which she did. Then he plopped himself right in her seat.

“We don’t need glasses!” he said, opening the box and taking out the bottle. “Get in, Anya. Sit on my legs.”

She got in and he began twisting the top off like a drunken sailor.

“In honor of our new American comrade, Anya, I’d like for him to take the first drink.” He held the open bottle up while his wife took a handkerchief from his suit pocket and began wiping the lipstick from his mouth. “Please, Comrade Sweet! Drink!”

“I need to run upstairs real quick,” I said, opening the door. “I’ll be right back.”

I headed upstairs and told Loretta, Dorene, and Bobby that there’d been a problem with the circuit breaker because of all the power usage during the party, and that I’d need to help Sergei fix it. I told them to carry on without me for however long it might take and they seemed to be just fine with that, all three engaged in conversation with various folks I’d never met before.

I returned to the garage to find Sergei still holding the bottle and waiting for my return. I opened the door and got in again.

“Please, Comrade Sweet,” said Sergei. “Drink!”

I grabbed the bottle and took a fake swig. My plan was to get the both of them very drunk, so drunk that I just might be able to steal the keys off of him. The key would be making sure they were the ones doing the majority of drinking. I’d need to creatively sip.

“Ah… that’s good whiskey,” I said, handing him the bottle.

Without saying a word or handing it to his wife first, he took a big drink.

“Delicious!” he said. “The Irish know how to make the best whiskey.”

He took another drink and handed the bottle to Anya, who still had a look of embarrassment, a blush, on her round, olive-skinned face. Based on the behavior of these two, I had a feeling they had downed more than their share of vodka, but this stuff was about to be much more potent.

I’d still had my bouts with sleep over the last decade and had received my last prescription of little white pills from Dorene’s doctor back in Nantucket. And as was the case during my Strivers’ Row days, they were coming in mighty handy. I just needed Sergei and Anya to enjoy the whiskey along with my crushed-up doozies. Of course, with no work for either of them to do tomorrow, I was betting they would fully partake and empty the bottle.