Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Carson frowned. “I’m terrible at math.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have anything to throw.”

“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “It’d land in my glass and I’d be out more beer. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Carson still didn’t move. “What about my car?” she asked, desperate for a last-ditch excuse.

“I’ll come in a little early tonight,” Battaglia explained. “I’ll pick you up at your house and drop you at your car. Then you can drive it to work. No fuss, no muss.”

Carson hesitated, but she was out of reasons to decline. Battaglia opened the driver’s door and popped the lock for her. She slid into the passenger seat. The cab had the slight scent of his cologne in it.

Battaglia let the engine idle for a few moments, staring straight ahead. Then he turned to Carson. “You asked me why I didn’t take you to Duke’s.”

She nodded.

Battaglia shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want people to talk.”

“Talk?” she asked, though she knew immediately what he meant.

“Sure,” he said, pointing to himself and then to her. “Man, woman. That sort of thing.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I mean, if we’d invited another cop or two along, it’d be nothing,” Battaglia explained. “Just taking the rookie out for a beer, is all. If we did that, though, we couldn’t have talked about that stop with the Russians. But if we went to Duke’s together with no one else, the River City rumor mill would start up on us. You know?”

Carson knew about the rumor mill. She’d been the grist too many times. “I guess,” she said. “I suppose it’s the same everywhere.”

“People is people,” Battaglia agreed.

They fell silent. Battaglia took in a deep breath and let it out. “So there it is,” he finally said, then dropped the truck into gear. “Your address?”

Carson gave it to him, then said, “Just go up Division until you hit-”

“I don’t need directions,” Battaglia said. “I know this city like the back of my hand.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You will, too,” he said, his voice tender. “Soon.”

Battaglia drove unerringly to her address and pulled up to the apartment complex. “Curbside service,” he announced.

Carson was glad to see that he didn’t turn off the engine or make any sign that he expected to come inside. She absolutely wasn’t going to invite him-was she? — but it made it easier that he didn’t expect it.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. When do you usually leave for work?”

“About eight.”

“I’ll be here. Just another fine service by Battaglia’s Beers ’n’ Cab.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Batts,” she said. His nickname sounded good to her ear, felt good rolling off her tongue.

“Anytime.”

She reached for her door handle, then stopped suddenly. She leaned across the seat and brushed her lips against his cheek. The beginning stubble of his beard raked her tender lips, and the scent of his skin and his cologne filled her nostrils.

Battaglia didn’t move.

She pulled away and popped open her door. “Really,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”

He met her gaze. “Anytime,” he repeated softly.

She flashed him a grin as she stepped out of the truck and closed the door behind her. He raised his hand in farewell and she returned the wave, then he nudged his truck forward and drove away.

A jumble of mixed emotions jangled around inside Carson’s chest. What the hell was that?

At her door she fumbled inside her purse until she drew out the key ring. She was grateful to be home. She resolved not to think about it. Just jump in the hot shower and get into bed. Sleep. She just needed to sleep. Another graveyard shift was coming.

But it wasn’t the shift she was worried about.

1214 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat at the table in the corner. The Zippo lighter with the Soviet logo turned slowly in his hands. He touched it with more than an absent-minded caress, but less than actual affection. He rolled and dipped it through his fingers slowly, because slow control was the mark of a man who had mastered an act. Anyone could blaze through something with a little practice. Slow control demonstrated mastery.

Dmitri was late once again. Val had already decided that if he did not come with the converted AK-47s, this would be the last meeting the fat man was ever late for in his miserable life. If he had the rifles, though… well, perhaps he could learn from a mere reprimand.

Pyotr hovered near the cash register, watching him but acting like he wasn’t. Whenever Val glanced his way, the old man gave him an ingratiating smile and a nod. Val returned his nod with a cool gaze.

The clattering of beads announced the arrival of his waitress. Natalia slid a cup of Turkish coffee in front of him, her jasmine perfume washing over him. She placed her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward slightly, giving him a perfect view of her cleavage.

“Will there be anything else?” she purred.

“No,” he replied.

An exaggerated pout appeared on her face and she turned away. As she walked, the sway of her hips was as pronounced as her expression.

“Natalia,” he grunted after her.

The dark-haired beauty stopped and turned around, smiling. “Yes, Valeriy?”

He waved her over. She sashayed back, resting her elbows on the table and batting her doe eyes at him.

“What is it?” she whispered huskily.

“I will gladly take you to my bed,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are most beautiful. You might even make a good wife.”

Her expression went from insulted to flattered within the space of his sentence, and her eyes grew sultry.

Val raised his finger. “But,” he said, “this is a coffee shop. Not a whorehouse. Just be pretty and a little bit friendly. That will be enough to bring the business in.”

Natalia gave him a hurt look.

Val waved her away. “Get back to work.”

The waitress turned and walked away. This time, the sway of her hips was noticeably muted.

Good, Valeriy thought. The less attention to this place, the better.

The door swung open and Dmitri strode in. He sat down without asking. After a moment he realized what he’d done and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Val said, waving him to the chair he’d already claimed.

Dmitri sat gratefully and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. “I am late,” he said.

“I noticed,” Val answered, injecting just a hint of disapproval into his tone.

“My apologies,” Dmitri added quickly, “but I was just finishing up the job.”

“Finishing?”

Dmitri smiled. “ Da. I didn’t want to bring you anything less than your full complement of arms.”

Val nodded, impressed. He took a long, noisy sip of his harsh Turkish coffee. “Even so, Dmitri,” he said, his voice pleasant but laced with danger, “it isn’t wise to keep someone waiting. After all, I might think that perhaps you went to the police.”

“Never!” Dmitri said forcefully. “I am no stukach !”

Val shrugged. “Or perhaps it is a sign of disrespect.”

“No, no, no!” Dmitri objected, waving his hands. “I just wanted to finish the last rifle. That’s all! If I could have called you, I would have, but you won’t use the telephone.”

Val’s eyes narrowed. “Are you taking me to task, Dmitri Yuskevich?”

“ Nyet, nyet!” he cried, waving his hands even more fervently. “I am only saying that… oh, I don’t know what I am saying. Please forgive me, sir. I am an armorer. I know firearms. I am not so good with people.”

Val sat back and gave the fat man a long look. Then he nodded slowly. “Very well. Tell me what you have.”