Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

“A guest?”

Malkinov nodded. “Yes. A Russian guest.”

Electricity shot through Val’s body. This could only mean one thing.

Oleg, you bastard, he thought. You’re dead now!

He kept his outward composure. “This is very interesting,” he told Malkinov. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a roll of money. “Let me please pay for the cost of your trip to see me today,” he said, peeling off several bills. He handed them to Malkinov, who took them gingerly.

“Thank you, Mr. Romanov,” Malkinov said, eyeing the money and trying to hide his disappointment. “You are very kind.”

Val forced a cold smile. Did this idiot think he carried enough money in his pockets to pay the bounty on Oleg? Or that he would pay in full without verifying the information?

“Give Pyotr your address,” he told Malkinov. “Perhaps later I will send a loaf of bread to your home as well.”

Malkinov’s worried expression disappeared and a smile spread across his face. “Oh, thank you very much, sir. Thank you.”

Val nodded dismissively and picked up his paper. Malkinov got the hint. He gave Pyotr his address and scuttled out the door while the fat manager was still scribbling. Val ignored them both, staring at the newsprint in front of him but reading nothing.

Oleg. We have you.

He let the exhilaration flow through his body, then forced himself calm. He waved Pyotr over. The manager brought him the slip of paper with Malkin’s address on it.

“Send Natalia out here,” Val told him, folding the piece of paper and putting it into his pocket. Pyotr nodded and disappeared into the back. Val flipped opened his cell phone and dialed Black Ivan’s number.

“Yes?”

“Pick me up at the coffee shop,” Val said. “We have work.”

“Yes,” Ivan replied.

Natalia emerged from the back of the store, wiping her hands on her apron. She approached with an expectant, hopeful expression. “Yes, Valeriy?”

“Go home,” he told her. “I may come to see you later. Even if I don’t, you will tell anyone who asks that I was with you from eight-thirty onward. Do you understand?”

She nodded, smiling. “Of course. Would you like me to cook for you, or-”

“Just go home,” Val told her.

Crestfallen, she turned to leave.

He flipped open his phone again and dialed Sergey’s number. While it rang, he admired the curve of Natalia’s hips and her trim calves. Who knew? Maybe he’d finish in time to have dinner with her. Or that something more she was trying to snare him with.

Sergey answered his phone. “Hello?”

“We need to talk,” Val told him. “It is important.”

2031 hours

Graveyard Shift

Thomas Chisolm sat in front of his locker, considering his options. He pulled on his boots and laced them up. He’d given some thought to how he should approach Battaglia and Carson, or if he should even talk to Carson at all. In the end, he only knew one way to talk to people. Talk to ’em straight.

If talking to Batts worked, he wouldn’t need to talk with Carson. If Batts didn’t respond, then maybe he’d see if Carson were receptive. That probably depended on how entranced she was with Mr. Anthony Battaglia.

Chisolm stood and buckled his pants belt. No time like the present. He wandered toward the back of the maze-like locker room, listening for O’Sullivan’s rolling Irish lilt or Battaglia’s more guttural Italian Brooklynese. He heard the clanging of lockers and general clamor of twenty-plus cops gearing up for a graveyard shift, but none of the usual banter. Just one more sign something was up.

He rounded the corner of the last row. Battaglia and O’Sullivan stood next to open lockers. Sully buckled his gun belt and closed his locker.

“See you out there, paisan,” he said to Battaglia.

Batts gave him a distracted nod.

Sully walked past Chisolm with a casual hello, and Chisolm clapped Sully on the shoulder as he went by. Battaglia put his head through the opening in his ballistic vest and pulled the straps into place. He pressed the Velcro together, then glanced up at Chisolm.

“Hey, Tom,” he said, his voice subdued.

“Hey,” Chisolm answered. “We need to talk.”

Battaglia gave him a puzzled look. “Sure. What’s up?”

Chisolm glanced quickly around the locker room. No one was left in the same bay, but he could still hear activity all around them in other rows. He lowered his voice.

“It’s about you and Carson,” Chisolm said.

Battaglia’s expression changed to surprise, then melted into anger. He turned away from Chisolm and reached inside his locker for his uniform shirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said forcefully.

Chisolm shook his head. “Let’s not bullshit around,” he said. “We’re cops. We live in the real world.”

“Really? Do people mind their own fucking business in this real world you’re talking about?”

Chisolm ignored the tone. “Anything that happens on this platoon is platoon business,” he said.

“I see,” Battaglia said. His eyes flashed with anger. He buttoned his shirt with rough movements. “And you’re the appointed spokesman for the platoon? Is that it?”

“No. I don’t think anyone else realizes that you’re sleeping with her.”

“Who says I’m sleeping with her?”

Chisolm gave him a dubious look. “I’m not standing here because I think something is going on. I know what’s going on, and so do you.”

Battaglia stared back at him and said nothing.

“And it needs to stop,” Chisolm added.

Battaglia finished buttoning his uniform shirt. He continued staring at Chisolm as he tucked in the shirt and buckled his trousers. Then he said, “Don’t tell me how to run my life, Tom.”

“Run your life however you want. Just keep it away from the job.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chisolm shook his head. “You know, if you want to step out on your wife, that’s your business. You’re an asshole for doing it, but it’s your business.”

Battaglia snatched his gun belt and strapped it around his waist.

“But when you start banging another cop, one we all work with, then it’s platoon business,” Chisolm said. “My business. Because I’m the one who’s counting on you or her to be one hundred percent when you’re here. Not worrying about playing patty-cake after shift at her apartment.”

Battaglia froze in the midst of buckling his gun belt. His glare turned venomous. “You’re a fucking snake, Tom.”

“The truth is the truth,” Chisolm said. “A distracted cop is a dead cop.”

Battaglia snorted. “What are you going to do? Tattle to the sarge on me?”

Chisolm clenched his jaw to keep his composure. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I? Not him.”

Battaglia said nothing.

“So if you want to mess around on your wife, go find yourself some badge bunny at Duke’s. Maybe you can grab up some of Giovanni’s castoffs. Or if it absolutely has to be Carson, then one of you needs to change platoons. It’s that simple.”

“You know what?” Battaglia said, closing his locker with a slam. “You’re not my dad and you’re not my boss, Tom. So mind your own fucking business.”

Battaglia grazed the veteran officer’s shoulder, but Chisolm let him pass without responding to the challenge. He watched Battaglia stalk away. The creaking sound of his leather equipment punctuated each step.

Chisolm tried to relax his clenched jaw. Frustration chewed at him.