Dennis Lehane: Moonlight Mile

“No.”

His grip was soft, almost delicate. “Who you find her for?”

“Her aunt.”

“But not for me?”

I shook my head. “Not for you.”

He gave me another nod as he wrapped his fingers around my wrist and ground his cigarette out in my palm.

I’m not sure how I managed not to scream. For half a minute, all I could feel was a fat ember burning through my flesh. I could smell it. My mind went black and then red and I flashed on an image of the nerves in my hand hanging like vines as smoke curled up them.

While he burned me, Kirill Borzakov looked into my eyes. There was nothing to see in his. No anger, no joy, no thrill that comes with violence or the elation of absolute power. Nothing. He had the eyes of a reptile sunning itself on a rock.

I grunted several times and exhaled through gritted teeth and tried to block images of what my hand must look like by now. I flashed on my daughter, and for a moment that calmed me, but then I realized I’d brought her into this moment, this polluted violence and sickness, and I tried to remove the image of her from my head, tried to will her away from this depravity, and the pain pulsed twice as strong. Then Kirill dropped my wrist and stepped back.

“See if this aunt can make your skin grow back.”

I flicked the dead cigarette butt from the center of my palm as Violeta Borzakov said, “Kirill, you’re blocking the TV.”

The coal was black now, on its way to ash, and the center of my palm looked like the top of a volcano-puckered and red, the burned flesh peeled back.

On the Mexican soap, the music swelled and a beautiful Latina in a white peasant top turned on her heel and stalked out of an earth-toned room as the lights went down. The next thing we saw was a commercial with Antonio Sabato Jr. hawking some kind of skin cream.

I would have paid a thousand dollars for that skin cream. I would have paid two thousand dollars for that skin cream and an ice cube.

Violeta took her eyes off the TV. “Why is the bambina still with the little girl?”

Amanda turned so they could see the handcuffs.

“What is this shit, Yefim?” Violeta sat up and leaned forward.

Yefim’s eyes widened. He seemed frightened by her. “Mrs. Borzakov, we bring her to you as promised.”

“As promised? You’re weeks late, pendejo . Weeks. And do you bring her, Yefim, or was it these people?” She waved in the general direction of Kenny, Helene, and Tadeo.

“It was us,” Kenny said from the couch. He gave Violeta a wave that she ignored. “All us.”

Kirill lit a fresh cigarette. “You have your baby now. Go get her and be done with this.”

Violeta slinked toward Amanda like a water snake. She peered at Claire and then sniffed her.

“Is she intelligent?”

Amanda said, “She’s four weeks old.”

“Does she talk?”

“She’s four weeks old.”

Violeta touched the baby’s forehead. “Say ‘Ma- ma .’ Say ‘Ma- ma .’ ”

Claire began to cry.

Violeta said, “Ssshhh.”

Claire cried louder.

Violeta sang, “Hush, little baby, don’t you fret. Momma’s gonna make you a…”

She looked around the room at us.

“Mockingbird?” I tried.

She thrust out her bottom lip in a gesture of acceptance. “And if that mockingbird don’t fly, Momma gonna buy you a…”

Another look for the room. Claire continued to wail.

“Corvette,” Tadeo said.

She frowned at him.

“Diamond ring,” Yefim said.

“That doesn’t rhyme.”

“And yet I am sure it is correct.”

Claire’s wailing hit a new pitch, the banshee-shrieking Amanda had mentioned.

Kirill, sitting on the couch, snorted a line of blow off the compact mirror and said, “Make her stop.”

Violeta said, “I’m trying.” She touched Claire’s head again. “Ssssshhhhh.” She hissed it, over and over-“Sssssshhhhhhhh! Ssssssshhhhhh!”

This did not make things better.

Kirill winced and snorted another line. He placed a hand to his ear and winced harder. “Shut her up.”

“Ssssssshhhhhhhh! Ssssssssshhhhhhh! I don’t know what the fuck to do. You said you would hire a nanny.”

“I hire the nanny. But I don’t bring her here. Shut her up.”

“Ssssssshhhhhh!”

By now Tadeo and Kenny both had their hands over their ears and Pavel and Yefim made various faces of discomfort. Only Helene seemed oblivious, her eyes on the DVD players and the iPods.

I said to Amanda, “Pacifier?”

“Right pocket.”

I held my hand by her pocket, looked at Yefim. “May I?”

“Shit, my friend, absolutely.”

I reached into Amanda’s pocket and pulled out the pacifier.

“Ssssssshhhhhhhhh!” Violeta was screaming it now.

I pulled the plastic cover off the pacifier, movement that drove a spike into my burned palm. My eyes watered and widened, but I reached over Amanda’s shoulder and plopped the pacifier into the baby’s mouth.

The volume in the room immediately plummeted. Claire sucked the pacifier back and forth against her lips.

“Better,” Kirill said.

Violeta ran both palms down her cheeks. “You have spoiled her.”

Amanda said, “Excuse me?”

“You have spoiled her. This is why she screams like this. She will learn not to do that.”

Amanda said, “She’s four weeks old, you fucking moron.”

“Don’t swear in front of the baby,” I reminded her.

She met my eyes and hers were bright and warm. “My bad.”

“What did you call me?” Violeta looked back at her husband. “Did you hear her?”

Kirill yawned into his fist.

Violeta stepped in close to Amanda and stared at her with those ravaged eyes of hers.

“Cut it off,” Violeta said.

“What?” Yefim said.

“Cut it off her.”

“You cannot cut those cuffs,” Yefim said. “Burn them off, maybe.”

Kirill lit a new cigarette with the butt of an old one, squinting around the smoke. “Then burn them off.”

“We’ll end up burning the girl.”

Violeta said, “Not if you cut off her hands.”

Yefim said, “Mrs. Borzakov?”

Violeta kept her eyes on Amanda, their faces so close their noses almost touched. “We’ll shoot her first. Then we cut off her hands. Then we find a way to take the handcuffs off the bambina .” She looked back at her husband. “Yes?”

Kirill was looking up at the TV. “What?”

“Escuche! Escuche!” Violeta slapped her own chest. “I’m here, Kirill.” She slapped her chest again, harder. “I exist.” One more slap. “I live in your life.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “What now?”

“We shoot the girl, cut off her hands.”

“Okay, darling.” Kirill waved toward the other end of the trailer. “Do it in the back bedroom.”

Yefim reached for Amanda, who didn’t so much as flinch.

“Let me,” Violeta said.

Yefim’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“I want to do it,” Violeta said, her eyes never leaving Amanda’s face. “She would prefer a woman do it. I know her.”

“Let her do it,” Kirill said to Yefim and waved a tired hand.

Through the entire conversation about her own murder, Amanda didn’t make a sound. She didn’t shake, she didn’t blanch. She stared at the two of them, unblinking.

Helene said, “What? Wait a minute. What’s going on here?”

Helene’s bag was still at her feet. They’d never checked her for a weapon, and my.45 was in there. It would take me four steps to reach the bag. Then I’d have to reach in, thumb off the safety, and point it at someone. I figured that even in the most optimistic scenario, Pavel and Yefim would empty a good two dozen rounds into me before I cleared the gun from the bag.