Scott Medbury - Inga

“I understand Sir, and I won’t keep you any longer than I have to. Please, would you mind stepping back inside your office for a moment?”

Stan was about to argue when one of the other men stepped up close to him. The old man’s eyes widened. Unlike his boss, the man didn’t display any emotion at all, and with his heavy brow and blocky build he looked like a brick with eyes.

“I suppose I can give you five minutes,” he said, looking back to Molenski. “That’s all, though. My wife will shoot me if I’m home too late… you understand?”

The Russian laughed heartily.

“Oh, I understand completely!” the Russian said, placing an arm over Stan’s skinny shoulders and guiding him to the steps. “My own wife, God rest her soul, also had a temper. Come, let us speak inside.”

Stan allowed himself to be ushered back inside his office.

“Please, sit,” said the Russian.

The old man was about to refuse but the big man who was sticking to him like gum to a shoe, pushed a chair into the back of his legs. Stan sat heavily on the seat at the small table he’d set up for customers who never queued and folded his arms tightly across his chest. The Russian sat down opposite.

“Please relax, Mister..?”

“Lewinski. Stan Lewinski.”

“Mr. Lewinski, thank you. I am Dimitri Molenski. Now, I’m here about a car…”

“Well, you can come back tomorrow, if you don’t mind, I have to be getting home.”

Stan tried to stand up and found himself shoved back into the chair by the meaty hand of the brick.

“Please, Mr. Lewinski, I really don’t want things to become – shall we say – unpleasant. Andre here has a quick temper. Just allow me a few moments of your time and we can all go home.”

“Fine, fine,” snapped Lewinski. “What car?”

“A gray Dodge Challenger,” said the Russian, watching the old man closely. “A Hellcat.”

The old man’s guts turned to water. He should have trusted his instincts earlier, but his greed had won out.

“What, you want to buy one?” he bluffed. “I don’t have one; you should try the used car dealer down the…”

Molenski slammed his open hand down on the card table. The old man jumped.

“I know you took possession of one today. I know that because it’s mine .” The old man opened his mouth to speak, but Molenski held up his hand. “That’s neither here nor there, Stan –do you mind if I call you Stan? All I need from you is information.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve never bought or sold a Dodge Challenger. In fact I…”

Molenski waved a lazy hand at Andre who seized the old man’s wrist and peeled his hand away from his chest before separating his pinky from his other fingers. Without pause, he snapped it backward. The muffled snap of bones breaking was loud in the small room, but not as loud as the old man’s scream.

Molenski winced sympathetically and nodded his head.

“I know, I know – it must hurt like a bitch. Now Stan, please, just tell me what I need to know and as I said before, we’ll be out of your hair.”

The old man was beside himself; his eyes squeezed shut as he rocked back and forth. He moaned and cradled his damaged hand.

“Stan, please.”

Stan Lewinski ignored the Russian bastard, hoping, like a bad dream, he would just go away. It wasn’t until he felt his hand grabbed again and the finger next to his mangled pinky separated from its fellows that he capitulated.

“All right, all right! Yes, I bought it today! Please! I can give it back… no more… please…”

“Excellent,” said Molenski. “Now we’re making some progress. Tell me, was it a big man with a crew cut?”

“Yes,” said Stan, his voice strained. “Him and his girl, a pretty thing.”

Molenski nodded and leaned ever so slightly forward on his chair.

“Good, now think very carefully, did he say where he was going?”

“No,” said Stan, honestly. He was compliant now, willing to tell the man anything he wanted to know. “He did buy a car from me, though. A Hyundai. I’ll give you the registration details; they’re in my filing cabinet.”

“Excellent. You’re sure he said nothing else?”

“No Sir, it was a quick transaction, just the way I like,” Stan said, smiling ingratiatingly. His broken finger was shrieking louder than his wife in an argument, but finally, he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He just wanted these people gone so he could go home and see to his finger.

“Good,” said Molenski, standing up. “You’ve been very helpful. Give Andre here the details.”

He headed for the door.

“But what about your car?”

“Keep it,” said Molenski over his shoulder before going through the door.

Stan was confused but relieved to see the back of the Russian, and keeping the car was a bonus. He stood up and shot the thug who had broken his finger a dirty look and headed behind the counter to his filing cabinet. He pulled out the folder with the details for the Hyundai and turned around to find the big man right in front of him. He took a wary step back and held out the folder.

Andre reached out with one of his long arms, but instead of taking the folder he grasped Stan Lewinski’s wrist and pulled him into a bear hug, his free hand snaking up behind the old man’s head and pulling his face into his chest.

The move was unexpected and done in such a way that at first, Stan thought the man was comforting him, perhaps sorry for his broken finger. With his face pressed into the fabric of the thug’s well-tailored sports coat, he hugged him back – he just wanted the fucker to leave with as little fuss as possible.

It was only when he tried to break away from the awkward hug that he found that it wasn’t a hug at all.

The hand on the back of his head pushed his face harder into the man’s chest, and Stan struggled to breathe. He dropped the folder and punched and clawed at the strong arms restraining him.

He tried to bite, but his mouth was so tight against the other man’s chest that he couldn’t open it wide enough.

Finally, he tried to scream but couldn’t.

What a fucking way to go! Hugged to death by a Russian!

Just before death took him, Stan Lewinski performed the one act of defiance still available to him and as the struggling of the old man weakened, Andre felt an unpleasant warmth spread over the front of his pants. Cursing, he stayed focused on the task at hand, holding him in the deadly embrace until a full minute had passed.

When it was done, Molenski’s man picked up the body and dumped it unceremoniously in the old office chair behind the counter. As the chair spun lazily into the wall, Stan Lewinski’s unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling, the small smile on his blue lips as unmistakable as the dark piss stain on his killer’s pants.

Andre, his face a thundercloud and the front of his wet pants clinging to his legs, bent and picked up the folder before walking out of the office with an awkward, bowlegged gait.

Molenski’s eyes reflected the burning garage at the back of the lot as his man climbed back into the Mercedes.

“Andre, get in touch with our contact in Traffic Control right now,” he said without taking his eyes off the tall flames. “Give them the details of that car; I want Ivan and the robot bitch in the Red Room by daybreak. And what the fuck is that smell?”

After Ivan had eaten the meal provided by Babic, beef stroganoff on a bed of mashed potato, he left the empty plate on the counter.

Inga finished her diagnostic scan a few minutes after he sat back down.

“Come, we should go now,” he said to her.

They had only just left the room when Ivan stopped suddenly, reeling as he suffered another bout of déjà vu on the landing. Inga put her hand out and steadied him.