Russell Blake - Silver Justice

“ Nyet .”

“Come on, Vaslav, live a little. Here.” Heron waved down the waitress and asked for another glass. She reached behind the counter and placed one on their table before making off to the front of the deli. Heron repeated the process with the mixing cup and poured several inches into the glass, then slid it to Vaslav.

The Russian raised it to his lips and tasted it. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. That is good.”

“Should be for eight dollars. Now what have you got for me?”

“My colleagues, who shall remain nameless, were approached by a man they had done business with before. Mainly drugs. This man specified that he had a contract that needed to be fulfilled and that he was both generous and serious. My colleagues should have researched all of the elements of the transaction better, I’ll grant you — I’m not arguing that taking the deal was prudent. Anyway, you know the rest. The assignment, which should have been questioned, in retrospect, went out to a talented freelancer who wasn’t talented enough.”

“All very touching, but that doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Do I look stupid to you, Vaslav? Are you going to treat me like your bitch when I was nice enough to share my tasty choco-coconut beverage with you?” Heron’s tone had hardened.

“The group that wanted your associate gone is a motorcycle gang. Seventh Sons. You’ve heard of them?”

Heron’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the name. “It rings a bell.”

“What my colleagues proposed is this. They can do a meet with the representative of that organization, you can record it, and then take whatever steps you see fit — as long as you leave my colleagues out of it from then on.”

Heron took another appreciative pull on his shake, pausing to savor the flavor before setting the glass down. “What’s the name of the contact person with Seventh Sons?”

“Teddy. Teddy Bear.”

Heron’s expression didn’t change. “Is this some kind of Russian humor, Vaslav? Because you’re losing your audience.”

“I don’t mean to offend. That’s the name he uses. He’s a huge man and looks like he’s been through several wars. I don’t pick their names. I’m just reporting.”

Heron sighed. He tapped a brief text message into his phone and sipped his shake while he waited for a response. Two minutes later his phone vibrated, and he peered at the message.

“Fair enough. There’s a known leader in their organization who goes by that moniker. I’ll need to run this up the flagpole to get approval but I think it’s a reasonable solution. I have your number. I’ll give you a call as soon as I have a ‘go’, and then we’ll work on the logistics of a meet — maybe you’ll need to get more money out of them to finish the job. Whatever. We can fine-tune that later.”

Heron finished the milkshake with a loud slurp and rose to his feet. “The shake is on you, Vaslav. Have one while you’re here. No reason not to. I’ll be in touch within twenty-four hours.”

“I think I will,” Vaslav said, draining the last of his glass. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Kennedy heard the man approaching before the door made any noise. Her ears were getting used to being alone in the quiet room, and she was now sensitized to any sound that was out of the ordinary. When the door opened, she was standing, ready, clutching the pizza box in front of her like a peace offering. It had been longer between bathroom breaks this time, but she was holding her own and wasn’t uncomfortable. She guessed it was late.

“Last time for the night. You eat everything?”

She nodded. “Even most of the pepperoni.”

“Good. Use the can, and then we’re done until tomorrow. Don’t drink any more water tonight, or you’ll be in trouble.”

“Okay.”

They made their procession to the toilet, and the man took the box from her. She looked at him before going into the little room.

“Too bad there’s no shower in there.”

“This isn’t a spa,” he replied with a shrug. “Not taking a shower for a few days won’t kill you.”

“It would be way more convenient if you could just lock the entire downstairs, and then I could use the bathroom whenever I needed to,” Kennedy said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, and when you tried to create some kind of distraction with the boiler or pipes or electricity and wound up killing yourself, my worries would be over because you’d never have to use the bathroom ever again. Then I’d just let the dogs eat you, and I could move on with my life.”

“I don’t hear any dogs,” Kennedy countered.

“They’re trained to stay silent. All good killer dogs are.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right out.” She disappeared into the bathroom, listening for any movement by the little window. She didn’t hear anything. Kennedy was beginning to suspect that the dog story was concocted to keep her from trying to escape.

When she exited, the man was holding a black cloth item in his hand.

“If I leave the light on, you can use this to sleep.” He handed her the object.

“What is it?”

“A sleep mask. They give them away on planes and sell them at drugstores so people can sleep when there’s lights on. You put it over your eyes, and the elastic holds it on your head.”

She inspected the mask.

“Don’t worry. It’s new.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“Fine. How are the books?”

“Good. But I’ll be done with them by tomorrow.”

“What? You read that fast?”

“I told you I read at an advanced level,” Kennedy said with precise pronunciation. She sounded much older for an instant.

“Well, read slower at an advanced level. I’m not going to have time to get you books every day.”

“You could always just let me go. I would take care of my own books, then.”

He appeared to consider it. “Now there’s an idea…Oh, wait, I thought about it, and the answer is…no. So we’re back to you need to read slower.” The man’s expression didn’t change.

“I was just tossing it out there.”

“Very kind of you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do. Time to retire to your lavish digs. I’ll be back in about twelve hours.”

“How will I know twelve hours have gone by? I don’t have a watch.”

“You’ll know because I open the door again.”

“You could always leave a cell phone. Those have the time on them.”

“I wonder why I didn’t think of that. I’ll certainly consider it.”

She smiled for the first time. “Just a thought,” she said.

“Thanks for that. But it’s going to be a long night, so I have to lock up now. See you tomorrow.”

“Are you really going to let me go?”

“At some point.”

“When?”

“When I’m ready.”

“Are you lying?”

“If I was, then my saying I wasn’t would also be a lie.”

They stared at each other.

“Are you planning to hurt my mom?”

“What is it with all the questions? Jesus. No, I’m not planning to hurt her, or you. Now go sit down on your bed, go to sleep or read your books — slowly — and don’t drink any more. Can you do that?”

She shuffled back into the room, giving him a petulant glare.

He swung the door closed.

Just as it was almost shut, she said, “Goodnight. And thank you for the mask.”

The door stayed open a crack.

“You’re welcome.”

The bolt eased back into place, then she heard his boots making their way back to wherever they’d come from.

Red and blue lights flickered off the glass storefront, the cheap neon sign overhead adding a carnival quality with its blinking, stylized, 1930s-era, tuxedo-clad cartoon figure waving a liquor bottle. NYPD had called in the FBI when The Regulator’s card was spotted clutched in the corpse’s bloody hand. A substantial contingent of agents had since gathered, waiting for the crime scene to be processed.