To The Lions - 02 (6 page)

Gage
was betting on someone at the club having an item he needed.

The
club was marked by a large neon sign displaying the outmoded hammer and sickle
associated with the Soviet Union.
 
The
name of the club was Eastern Bloc, written using both the English and Cyrillic
alphabets.
 
The building loomed large on
the main strip, covered in sheets of chrome and fronted by numerous velvet
ropes that would later restrain the throng as they waited to enter.
 
But at this early hour the club was deserted,
save for a lone man inside the door.
 
He
had a shaved head, dual diamond earrings, and a hideous burgundy suit with gold
piping for trim.
 
Judging from a quick
glance at the musculature under the gaudy suit, he appeared to be the type of
fellow who could handle himself in conflict.

Feeling
the want of caffeine, Gage seated himself at an adjacent street-side café,
ordering an espresso and eating the semi-sweet cookie that came with it.
 
All the while, he watched the man inside the
doors of the club, studying his actions.
 
Finished, Gage left five euro under the saucer and stepped to the velvet
ropes of club Eastern Bloc.

Closing
his eyes, Gage took a deep breath, momentarily unsure of this route of action.

You’re unarmed, Gage.
 
This is your easiest and quickest method of
rectifying that.

“Shit,”
Gage whispered, wishing he didn’t feel compelled to do this.
 
He stepped to the glass door and knocked three
times.
 
The man in the burgundy suit
turned, mouthing something Gage couldn’t make out.
 
It probably had to do with Eastern Bloc’s
opening time which, according to the Cyrillic-style letters on the door, wasn’t
until nine in the evening.
 
The man went
back to what he was doing behind the podium, involving paper tickets of some
sort.

Gage
eyed the cut of the man’s suit closely.
 
Yep, two of them,
right where I’d wear them, too.
 
Gage was guessing .40 calibers in chrome…or gold.
 
He knocked again.

The
beady blue eyes came up, showing a high level of irritation.
 
Gage curled his finger.
 
The man came to the door, eyes beaming lasers.
 
There was the snap of a bolt.
 
The door opened, bringing with it the residual
smell of cologne, vodka, boiled cabbage and sweat.

“What
do you want?” the man growled in English.
 
Gage saw the glint of gold teeth and, from under the man’s collar, the brief
hinting escape of a jagged chest tattoo.
 
The man was almost certainly what Gage thought he was.

“I
was told to speak with you,” Gage said in German.

“English
or Russian,” the man growled.
 
Gage
repeated the phrase in English, again using a German accent.

“Who
told you speak with me?”

Gage
swallowed and looked both ways.
 
“Last
night, here, the girl with brown hair.
 
I
don’t know if she was Russian or Ukrainian.
 
Anyway, she said to come by early and to only speak with Yuri about
it.
 
I’ve got all the money.”

The
Russian’s face contorted.
 
“Yuri?
 
There no damn Yuri here.
 
My name is Dmitry.
 
And what money?”

Gage
showed his palms and backed onto the sidewalk.
 
“Okay, you know what, I’m nervous enough about buying this stuff from
someone I don’t know and I think she gave me some bad information.
 
I’m really sorry for bothering you.
 
I’ll go elsewhere, cool?”

He
turned and began to walk away, struggling not to grin.
 
He heard the scrape of Dmitry’s knock-off Gucci
loafers on the sand-gritted sidewalk.
 
Then Gage was whirled around by a strong hand.

“What
you talking about?” the Russian asked, still gripping Gage’s shoulders.

“You
know…”

Dmitry
gave Gage’s shoulder a shake.
 
“No, I
don’t know.
 
Tell me.”

Gage
glanced around before leaning close to the Russian’s ear and whispering, “The white
pony.”

“White
pony?”

“C’mon
man…y’know…coke.”

“Cocaine?”

Gage
shook his head, trying to pull back.
 
“See…I knew it…this is a bad idea.”

The
Russian held firm.
 
“
What
cocaine?”

“This
is bad…so, so bad,” Gage murmured to himself, clamping the bridge of his
nose.
 
“Look, man, my supplier fell
through.
 
Disappeared one day like a
ghost.
 
And when I explained it to the brown-haired
girl last night, she told me she was certain Yuri could replace my guy.”

Dmitry
released Gage, assuming a look of innocence.
 
“We don’t sell drugs here.”

“Hey,
man, I understand.”
 
Gage looked up and
down the sidewalk in desperation, as if he might find a cocaine supplier nearby.
 
“It’s just that this is going to be the first
big weekend of the season…I guess I’ll just tell my, you know,
merchants
…that they’re going to have to
go elsewhere.”

The
Russian’s ring-adorned hand clamped down again.
 
“
You
wholesale to dealers?”

“I
really don’t want to broadcast that.”

The
Russian’s poker face evaporated as big money entered the picture.
 
“Exactly how much product you look to buy?”

“You’re
not a cop, are you?” Gage asked.
 
Dmitry’s
instantly contemptuous expression provided the answer.
 
Gage glanced around again.
 
“A ‘key’ would do me.
 
But two would be even better.
 
I can go as high as three…” Gage added a
toadying smile, “
if
I get a quantity
discount.”

The
Russian licked his lips as he processed this.
 
“That is lot of money.”

“You’re
telling me, pal.
 
One kilo is going to
run me twenty-three, maybe twenty-four.”
 
Gage was guessing at this amount based on a job he’d worked a few months
back.
 
Thankfully, the Russian didn’t
flinch.
 
“And just imagine what I’m
giving up on my end if they have to go elsewhere.
 
Cut up and stepped on, I’m clearing quadruple
my cost in Tossa and sometimes seven, eight times cost here in Lloret,
especially when it’s high season.”

That got his wheels turning.
 
This thug’s thinking about rolling me for my
cash.
 
Okay, Dmitry, just take the bait.

“Come.
 
You go inside club,” Dmitry said, his voice
softening somewhat.

“You
know what?” Gage said, faking nervousness.
 
“Let’s just both walk away.
 
I’ve
got a bad vibe about this whole deal.
 
I
probably should drive down to Barcelona.”

“No,
no, no, my friend.
 
Come inside.
 
I get you good drink and I call my boss.
 
We help each other, okay?
 
Good friends.”

“Are
you sure?” Gage asked, still resisting.

“We
help,” the Russian insisted, flashing his humorless gold smile.
 
“And we become good friends for long time.
 
This good thing for all of us, yes?”

As
Gage reached the threshold, he stopped.
 
“Just so you know, I don’t have the money with me.”

The
Russian peered back with a cloudy face.
 
“Why you say?”

“Well,
it’s just that I’ve had a few bad experiences with…you know, with
Russians.
 
You might have some of your
friends downstairs ready to beat me up.”

The
Russian laughed.
 
“You watch too many
German movies,
zalupa
.
 
Come…it’s just me and worker girls.”
 
He motioned in front of his chest, as if he
were hefting melons.
 
“You might see nice
boobies, yes?”

“That
never hurts,” Gage replied.

He
followed Dmitry down a flight of painted red stairs, again noting the cut of
the man’s jacket and the twin bulges under his arms.
 
Harsh light blared from above, made worse by
the walls’ shiny red paint.
 
At the
bottom of the stairs, to the right, were thick double doors with the letters
CCCP emblazoned diagonally in bright yellow.
 
The Russian smiled reassuringly at Gage as Gage glanced up at a security
camera.
 
He wasn’t concerned about the
Russian turning him in to the police, but there was no point in having a video
record of what he hoped to accomplish.

Not here.
 
Wait a moment.

After
entering a five-digit code on a keypad, the Russian pushed his way inside.
 
Music was the first thing Gage noticed,
playing at half the volume it would later, but plenty loud for Gage’s taste—a
throbbing modern beat of some sort.
 
The
club was very dark and looked like any nightclub does when it’s without the swarms
of people it’s designed for.
 
There were
columns throughout, each surrounded by dancing platforms and yellow rails,
large enough to hold one or two dancers.
 
The left side of the room was elevated.
 
The right side, several feet lower, claimed a long bar with a curving
neon countertop running nearly the entire length of the club.
 
The upper half had a small bar halfway back
and that’s where Dmitry gestured Gage to sit.

“You
want drink?”

“A
beer will do.”

Dmitry
stepped behind the bar and popped a beer, sliding it in front of Gage and
pointing at it.
 
“Baltika…bring on jet
here just for club.
 
You not find Baltika
anywhere in Spain.”

Gage
pretended to sip the beer, tasting just a hint on his lips.
 
“I feel like I’m in Moscow already.”

The
Russian roared laughter and came around the bar.
 
“I be back five, ten minutes, yes?
 
I make call about your kilos.
 
Enjoy beer and…”
 
He screamed a name Gage couldn’t understand,
afterward motioning with his hand.
 
Gage
turned to see light briefly spill in from the far side of the room as a lithe
figure glided into the darkness.
 
A
woman.
 
The Russian met her halfway
across the club, harshly speaking to her as he went out the way she’d come in.

After
he passed through the door, Gage watched as Dmitry stared back through the
glass.

The
stare was malevolent.

Gage
turned his eyes to the woman.
 
She stood
still for a moment, then allowed a zip-up jacket to slide off her torso and
fall to the floor, making her way to Gage in only a bikini and heels.
 
Under the red lights of the bar, Gage quickly
decided that stunning wasn’t a powerful enough word to describe her.
 

She
moved beside him, standing close but keeping her eyes averted.
 
Gage couldn’t help but notice her scent—it
was one of summer, the way a freshly-tanned woman smells after a shower.
 
Her eyes were still turned away, her
beautiful face drawn.

She doesn’t want to be here
.

Gage
studied her, drinking in the woman’s full triangular face with wide cheekbones.
 
Her eyes were large and were either blue
or green—it was too dark to tell.
 
Guessing she was in her early twenties, Gage instantly marked her as sad—probably
exploited by her Russian club-owning masters.
 
She began to speak to him but he couldn’t understand.

“I
can’t understand you.
 
Do you speak English
or German?” he yelled over the music.

She
focused on him.
 
“English is okay.”

“Whatever
you were speaking didn’t sound like Russian.”

“Polish.
 
I’m Justina.”
 
She said it with a silent “J”, sounding like “Yoos-tina.”

“Pleased
to meet you, Justina,” he replied, glancing to the door she’d entered from.
 
“You thought I was Polish?”

“I
wasn’t really thinking,” she replied.

“Are
you here alone, Justina?”