Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"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.

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.

Dan draped his right arm over my shoulders, speaking rapidly to the woman and giving me a friendly shake as he did. As she listened she nodded, and when he had finished she pressed a button on the intercom and said something, quickly.

A door at the back opened almost immediately, and a young woman who couldn't have been older than eighteen emerged wearing something that would only ever look arousing in lingerie catalogues. Her hair was black, loose about her face, and she was just close enough to pretty that I supposed she would be if I saw her anywhere but here. Her body was entirely visible under the fabric, her breasts still winning against gravity and her nipples erect from their contact with the air-conditioned air. Her pubic area was barely hidden by a black thong.

She stopped in the doorway and put one arm up on the frame, striking a pose, then turned to give me a view of her from behind. Her body was small and slight, and there were bruises on the back of one thigh. All of her nails – fingers and toes – were painted red.

"This is Katrina," Dan said. "You're going to go with her."

I realized I was in a whorehouse, and I saw where this was heading, and I said, "No, I'm not."

Then I stamped my right foot down on his, going for his instep. The move clipped him, enough that he growled, trying to pivot and drive his knee into my stomach, but I twisted away from him, out from under his grip, and the knee missed, but his right grabbed the collar of my jacket, keeping me from backing away. Before I had the HK up he'd grabbed the gun with his left, twisting it down so fast and so hard that I had to let it go or risk him tearing my index finger off in the trigger guard. The gun landed on the floor between us and I pitched myself forward, hitting him in the nose with my forehead. That rocked him, but he didn't let go of my collar, and with his left he shot two quick and mean punches into my right side, going for my kidney. Heat and pain chased each other around my middle and I almost lost control of my bladder, and the part of my brain that thinks these kinds of things at the worst possible moment wondered if I'd ever been hit so hard in my life.

He still had my collar, and I tried to get my arms up to his, turning to break his hold, but the kidney punches had done a number on my legs, and I got halfway through the turn before he shifted his balance and drove me into the desk, ramming the edge into my belly. I doubled over and he used his left to slam my face down onto the desktop so hard, the can of Diet Coke fell over. As the pool of carbonation swept into my eyes and hair, he changed his grip, using both hands to hold my head down, putting all of his weight against me, and I could feel his thumbs digging into my right temple.

Points of light began swimming before my eyes. The soda had found its way into one nostril, the carbon dioxide burning, and I sputtered and struggled, and Dan didn't relent.

"No more, okay?" He sounded as if I'd hurt his feelings more than his body. I probably had.

There really wasn't any choice. I tried to nod, realized that was never going to work given my current posture, and choked out a noise of assent. Again, his grip changed, and while one hand remained on my head, thumb still applying pressure, the other ran down my leg and located the Smith Wesson. He threw that aside, then went through my pockets and took my wallet, my knife, every slip of paper I'd gathered during the day.

Satisfied that I'd been disarmed, he released me, and I pushed myself back up, feeling humiliated and angry and in a fair amount of pain. Katrina was still in the doorway, looking bashfully at her red toenails. The fat woman was already mopping up the spill on her desk, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.