Short Story - The Russian Double (3100 words)
The Russian Double
by William Penrose
I stood in the dirty foyer and re-examined my list. All the names under ‘Recommended’ had been crossed off. Also the first three names on the ‘Not Recommended’ list. This place was last on the list, and clearly, the bottom of the last barrel.
By the light of the only working bulb, a grizzled man sat on the hall floor holding a bottle of Last Chance between his legs like a grossly misshapen dork. Through runny eyes, he gazed up at me with undisguised lust, saying something possibly lewd in his end-stage alcoholic croak. Beside him, a rat fed on discarded food, and bags of stinking garbage leaked a pool of yellow liquid onto the floor. Plastic syringes crunched underfoot as I walked to the elevator. Why, oh, why had I worn heels when I set out on this adventure, anyway? When they hand you a list this long, you know it’s not going to be an easy quest.
The elevator seemed available, but there was a scrawled note on it, ‘Elevater Mite Fail - Use at Own Risk’. I looked at the stairs, narrow and steep, with a section of banister missing. The address on the list read ‘Sixth Floor’. I thought about my sore feet and pressed the elevator call button.
The elevator creaked for a minute, but only one side of the door opened, and only part way. I was able to squeeze through, although getting my 48DDDs through the narrow slot took more ingenuity than you might imagine. The drunk choked and moaned excitedly behind me.
At the sixth floor, I forced the elevator open with my hands. The hall was dark and stank of rotting meat, as if a corpse lay in the shadows. Keeping my hand in my purse, on the butt of my Beretta, I finally stood in front of a worn door. A crayoned sign was taped to the wall.
‘Snooky Balliol - Investigations.’
From inside, I heard frantic coughing, followed by an obscene hawking and finally a spit and a splat. The smell of cigarette smoke sifted past the door.
I knocked. There was sudden silence. I waited. And waited.
I knocked again. The lock clicked.
“Who is it?” A nasal Truman-Capote voice came through the crack on the ill-fitting door.
“I’m looking for Mr. Balliol. I need his help.”
“He’s booked up.”
“I’m told he’s the only one that can help me,” I said.
“Are you a woman?”
“Last I looked,” I said, puzzled.
“With long blonde hair?”
“Yes. Golden blonde, down to my shoulder blades.”
“And big bazongas?”
“I’ve been told they are, um, ample, Mr. Balliol. But you’ll have to see for yourself.”
He opened the door, and a funk of tobacco smoke, whiskey and sweat washed over me.
“Holy square-dancin’, jumping, jivin’ Jesus Christ!” he said. “I musta been popped on that last job and went to Heaven after all! A leggy, gorgeous, skyscraper blonde! Thank you, Lord!”
At first, all I saw were his bulging, bloodshot eyes, the drooling leer, and crooked teeth. He was about five foot two, and stared directly into my breasts. I had taken care to wear a deep vee-necked blouse that showed enough cleavage to park a CTA bus. This number also had floppy buttons that made it look as though it could fall open any time.
“Mr. Balliol.” I stepped across the threshold, forcing him to back up or get knocked over, bosom first.
“What?”
“Up here. My face is up here.” I used a knuckle to raise his chin. My finger came back wet.
“Can I do something for you, Miss...”
“Jakinov. Olga Jakinov.” I wiped my finger on my skirt. “I need someone to protect me.”
“Miss Jackinoff, you have come to just the right place. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me your problem?” He seated himself in the tilting oak chair, behind a desk covered with pizza cartons and empty whiskey bottles. He put his feet up on the desk. They were huge, and there were round holes in the leather.
I looked around, and there was only a high stool, covered with dirty glasses. I set them on the floor. Behind me, Balliol breathed noisily as I bent over. Finally, I sat on the stool and crossed my legs, making sure a generous stretch of darkly nyloned thigh was showing.
“Mr. Balliol, my life is in danger. I need a bodyguard. My father is Corgi Jakinov. You might have read about him in the papers. He’s a Government witness, but the DA is afraid the bad guys might come after me, too, to get at him. I need someone to keep an eye on me.”
“The cops are supposed to do that.”
“You trust the cops in this town, Mr. Balliol? My father is a wealthy man. He will compensate you well.”
“Sure, babe, I can see why that gorgeous horseflesh needs to be guarded.” He gaped at my crossed legs. Swallowing my bile, I smiled and let one shoe dangle from a toe. He squirmed as if he were going to come, right there. “And I’m just the guy to do it,” he squeaked.
Time for the intelligence test. “Mr. Balliol, do you know anything about the Russian mob?”
“A mob of Russians? Jeez, lady, sure. I took that stuff about the battleship and the palace and the mob of Russians in high school. What the hell was it called?”
“Battleship Potemkin,” I said. “I think I’ve heard enough. You’re perfect for the job.” The other detectives I’d interviewed had turned white at the mention of the Russkies, and suddenly discovered their schedules were full. Balliol was many steps further down the IQ scale, but he was all I was going to get.
“What?”
“I said you’ll be perfect for the job.” I recrossed my legs, and he squeaked softly, like a poisoned squirrel.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I need you to stay with me, day and night. I need that big Magnum of yours between me and the bad guys.”
“Should I bring my gun, too?” he asked.
* * *
The perverted little worm was with me 24 hours a day, pawing through my underwear drawer, sticking his head in the liquor cabinet, and fiddling with the mirrors so he could watch me in the shower. Apparently he thought all mirrors worked only one way. I’ll admit I took perverse pleasure in leaving the bathroom door open, the better to drive him nuts. At my afternoon workout, Balliol gaped at my skimpy outfit, and muttered, “Whoo-ee,” and “Shake it, Olga,” and “Got room in there for me?” Afterward, he’d disappear into the bathroom for a half-hour and come out, wiping his hands on his pants.
But he did check out elevators, clear my apartment when we returned from shopping or the movies, and go through doorways before me with his pistol drawn. That didn’t worry me. The cartridges from his weapon rattled securely in a baggie in the bottom of my purse.
The first attempt came three days later, less than a week before the trial was to start. We were watching TV. Balliol insisted on Jerry Springer, and he laughed and bounced up and down on the couch as if he himself were in the studio.
The phone rang once. The signal.
Balliol began to reach for it, but it did not ring a second time. He went back to his program.
I leaped up, and grabbed his arm and my purse. “Come on, Snooky. We’ve got to get out of here, fast.”
“This’ll be over in ten minutes,” he said, never taking his eyes from the screen. I yanked him physically from the chair, dragged him out the apartment door, and herded him towards the stairwell.
“Why the stairwell?” he said, pushing past me toward the elevator lobby. At that moment, the doors slid open and a bulky man dashed out, carrying a silenced Sig. He spotted us right away and broke into a run. We raced for the stairwell, as a shot shattered a doorframe over our heads.
Snooky had pushed past me by the time we reached the end of the hall. He burst through the stairwell door, colliding with a second bulky man who had just reached the top step. Both men tumbled off the landing, but I snagged Snooky’s sleeve with my fingers and swung him into the handrail. The bigger man hurtled ass over teakettle down the concrete steps, and finished with a noisy ‘smock’ as his skull broke on the steel supports.
I turned back to the stairwell door, just as the first Russian barreled through. He was too close to bring his lengthened pistol to bear, and he instinctively threw his arms around me. Two soft pops sounded in the space between us.
“Rest in peace, Ivan,” I grinned, as the Russian’s arms slackened.
His eyes widened in surprise, and he said, in Russian, “You’re not her!” Coughed-up blood dribbled down his chin. His eyes rolled up and he slid to the floor, gazing up the stairwell as if something amazing were coming down the stairs.
“Jesus fuck,” said Snooky. “Miss Jackinoff, there’s smoke coming out of your purse!” He looked again at the fresh holes in the leather, a curl of smoke, and my wrist, still thrust inside the purse. “You’re packing! Just who the fuck are you?”
“Shush,” I said. I pulled out my cell and punched in speed-dial ‘2’. “Clean-up on stairwell two,” I said. “Two bogeys down. All the way down”
By now, my bodyguard was green and retching. I led him back to the apartment. “I thought mayhem was your business,” I said.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said. “This isn’t babysitting, is it? And you’re no Russian Valley girl. There’s something else going on.”
“I was straight up with you,” I said, “Except one or two little things.”
“Little enough to have two big thugs gunning for us?”
I shut and locked the apartment door and sat Snooky on the sofa. “To start with, my name is not Olga Jakinov. It’s Candy Tragina. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI.”
“I don’t get it. Why are you living like a princess, and shopping in ritzy stores, and pushing me ahead of you through doors and into rooms? You’ve even got me starting your car and tasting your food. Where are the other agents?”
“There’s a few around, watching and listening to keep us safe. At least during working hours. Except on weekends and Government mandated holidays.”
I lowered my voice. “We’re trying to protect the real Olga Jakinov. We’ve got her in a place where she’s safe, for now. But the Russian mob is good at finding people, especially when they’re trying to silence a witness or take revenge. So my superiors found a nearly perfect double-me. I’m to live in her apartment and shop where she shops. I even speak Russian with her inflection. We hope the Russkies will be fooled long enough.”
“So I’m your basic bullet sponge? Why did you pick me, and how can I get out of it?”
I wasn’t about to tell him we had composed our original list of PIs based on their history of screwups. We’d hired him so the Russians, thorough as ever, would assume I was ineptly guarded and use a direct frontal attack in their plan to kidnap Olga. Kill the bodyguard, then take the woman. But this woman was packing.
Instead, I said, “Because you have an enviable record of efficiency and honesty. You’ve never lost a client when bodyguarding.” I smiled sweetly. He had never guarded anyone more important than a failed rock star with no money and fewer than a dozen zealous fans.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, launching a smoke ring across the room until it vanished in the blast of a ventilation grill. “But I want out.”
“No can do, Snooky. The mob has seen you. If you knew more about them, you’d know they’ll kill everyone that works for the oppo. They’re not afraid to kill cops, or politicians, or priests. They’re not like the old-fashioned Mafia. You’re only safe as long as you work with us.”
I put a fresh clip in my pistol and started gathering my things. “The first order of business is to move to a hotel. This apartment is too exposed.”
“I’ll move to another city.”
“No, you won’t. They’ll chase you down wherever you go. You’re going to help me see this through. Now that they’ve tried a direct approach and failed, the next attempt will be more devious.”
“The next attempt? So those two guys we killed...”
“...were operatives, ciphers, nobodies. There’s a dozen more where they came from, only now they’re going to be pissed. Remember, the original plan was to kidnap Olga Jakinov, not kill her. Not right away, at least. Since they’re bound to think it was you that killed their men, they’ll be real interested in killing you, though. Probably slowly and over a few days. Our main advantage is that they won’t be expecting me to pull a gun, too.”
An FBI G-ride picked us up and moved us to a hotel across town. Snooky zeroed in on the mini-bar right away. “Would you look at the prices?” he exclaimed. “Eight-fifty for one of these!” He waved a miniature bottle of Johnny Walker at me, twisted off the cap, and swallowed it in two gulps. He grabbed another. I knocked it out of his hand.
“Listen, you dumb son of a bitch. Those Russkies could be anywhere. I want you alert and watching, not puking in the bathroom.”
I looked at myself in the mirror. My makeup was a mess, and the Russian’s blood had sprayed down my blouse and over my neck. “I’ve got to wash up. Call down to room service and get us a couple of steaks. Baked potato for me.”
I pulled the bathroom door partly closed and took off my blouse and bra. I washed the blood off my skin, and filled the sink with warm water and took a vial from my purse. It was Gore-Away, a powerful enzyme detergent favored by field agents. I was forever in inconvenient places with other people’s blood on me. By now, I routinely carried some of this stuff with me.
When I’d finished kneading the blouse in the water, I looked up suddenly and caught Snooky peering at me through the door.
“You wanted your steak medium rare, right,” he said, not looking at my eyes at all.
I turned on him. “Why don’t you have a good look now, Balliol? Because in another second, I’m going to have your eyeballs on swizzle sticks. Then you can look around corners without getting caught.”
“Aw, Candy,” he whined. “When you throw them at me like that, what am I supposed to do? I never said I was a gentleman. Anyway, you lied about your name. Why wouldn’t you lie about being a broad? The way you handle yourself, I’d a thought you were a man.”
Furious, I grabbed him behind the neck and pulled him into my breasts. “Does this convince you, gumshoe? Issat enough evidence for you?”
Instead of reflexively pulling away, I felt his lips capture a nipple and begin to suck. Electric shocks went straight to my crotch, and I decided to hold the little toad where he was, just a moment longer. And maybe a little beyond that...
I felt my skirt being lifted, and a hand touched my thigh. “Oh, Jesus,” I said, and Snooky switched nipples.
There was a knock at the door. “Shit,” said Snooky.
“Shit,”I said.
Snooky made a beeline for the door. “This better be good. I haven’t eaten all day, and the timing couldn’t be lousier.”
“Wait! Don’t open it yet!”
Snooky pulled the door open, and a smiling waiter came in, pushing a cart. The room filled with the sizzle and smell of cooked meat. A button popped from the waiter’s uniform and dinged off a wine glass. Taking a closer look, I could see that the uniform was many sizes too small for the man wearing it.
The waiter gaped at my breasts, but only for a second. He smiled like a snake, and with a flourish, lifted the cover from one of the plates, where a steak sizzled. “Mam’selle,” he said, in an accent that was not French.
“Smells great!” said Snooky, rubbing his hands.
“Snooky, get away!” I shouted.
The Russian picked up the cover from the other plate, revealing an automatic pistol. He snatched it up and raised it at me.
Snooky grabbed the plate with the hot steak and in one movement, smacked it in the Russian’s face. The man howled in pain.
I ran for my purse and pulled out my Beretta, as two more men ran in behind the Russian. Like the first man, they hesitated a split second, spotting my hooters first, and my pistol second. As quickly as I could pull the trigger, I fired in the general direction of the door. Ejected shells tinkled on the tile bathroom floor. When the hammer clicked on the empty chamber, both men lay, one across the other, pooling blood on the hotel’s swank carpet.
Snooky sat on the remaining Russian, still rubbing the hot meat into his face. The screaming man waved his pistol wildly and fired twice before I could kick it out of his hand. “That’s enough, Snooky. Let him up.”
More footsteps came running down the hall. I pounded in a fresh clip and brought the Beretta to bear on the doorway, but this time, it was Agents Curtis and Pearson. They held their ID ahead of them as they slowly revealed themselves. I lowered my pistol.
Curtis leered at my naked chest and said, “I see you used your secret weapon on these turkeys. Both barrels.”
Pearson, who was gay, said, “They still don’t beat a good set of pecs.”
The hotel was kind enough to move us to another room while the local police strung yellow tape.
“Well,” said Snooky. “Do we call room service again? Or shall we eat out.”
“I think we’ll leave that until later. Come over here, you little hunk of man.”
There was a reason Snooky wore size 13 shoes, and with the lights out and my ears stuffed with cotton, it wasn’t so bad at all.
[end]
by William Penrose
I stood in the dirty foyer and re-examined my list. All the names under ‘Recommended’ had been crossed off. Also the first three names on the ‘Not Recommended’ list. This place was last on the list, and clearly, the bottom of the last barrel.
By the light of the only working bulb, a grizzled man sat on the hall floor holding a bottle of Last Chance between his legs like a grossly misshapen dork. Through runny eyes, he gazed up at me with undisguised lust, saying something possibly lewd in his end-stage alcoholic croak. Beside him, a rat fed on discarded food, and bags of stinking garbage leaked a pool of yellow liquid onto the floor. Plastic syringes crunched underfoot as I walked to the elevator. Why, oh, why had I worn heels when I set out on this adventure, anyway? When they hand you a list this long, you know it’s not going to be an easy quest.
The elevator seemed available, but there was a scrawled note on it, ‘Elevater Mite Fail - Use at Own Risk’. I looked at the stairs, narrow and steep, with a section of banister missing. The address on the list read ‘Sixth Floor’. I thought about my sore feet and pressed the elevator call button.
The elevator creaked for a minute, but only one side of the door opened, and only part way. I was able to squeeze through, although getting my 48DDDs through the narrow slot took more ingenuity than you might imagine. The drunk choked and moaned excitedly behind me.
At the sixth floor, I forced the elevator open with my hands. The hall was dark and stank of rotting meat, as if a corpse lay in the shadows. Keeping my hand in my purse, on the butt of my Beretta, I finally stood in front of a worn door. A crayoned sign was taped to the wall.
‘Snooky Balliol - Investigations.’
From inside, I heard frantic coughing, followed by an obscene hawking and finally a spit and a splat. The smell of cigarette smoke sifted past the door.
I knocked. There was sudden silence. I waited. And waited.
I knocked again. The lock clicked.
“Who is it?” A nasal Truman-Capote voice came through the crack on the ill-fitting door.
“I’m looking for Mr. Balliol. I need his help.”
“He’s booked up.”
“I’m told he’s the only one that can help me,” I said.
“Are you a woman?”
“Last I looked,” I said, puzzled.
“With long blonde hair?”
“Yes. Golden blonde, down to my shoulder blades.”
“And big bazongas?”
“I’ve been told they are, um, ample, Mr. Balliol. But you’ll have to see for yourself.”
He opened the door, and a funk of tobacco smoke, whiskey and sweat washed over me.
“Holy square-dancin’, jumping, jivin’ Jesus Christ!” he said. “I musta been popped on that last job and went to Heaven after all! A leggy, gorgeous, skyscraper blonde! Thank you, Lord!”
At first, all I saw were his bulging, bloodshot eyes, the drooling leer, and crooked teeth. He was about five foot two, and stared directly into my breasts. I had taken care to wear a deep vee-necked blouse that showed enough cleavage to park a CTA bus. This number also had floppy buttons that made it look as though it could fall open any time.
“Mr. Balliol.” I stepped across the threshold, forcing him to back up or get knocked over, bosom first.
“What?”
“Up here. My face is up here.” I used a knuckle to raise his chin. My finger came back wet.
“Can I do something for you, Miss...”
“Jakinov. Olga Jakinov.” I wiped my finger on my skirt. “I need someone to protect me.”
“Miss Jackinoff, you have come to just the right place. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me your problem?” He seated himself in the tilting oak chair, behind a desk covered with pizza cartons and empty whiskey bottles. He put his feet up on the desk. They were huge, and there were round holes in the leather.
I looked around, and there was only a high stool, covered with dirty glasses. I set them on the floor. Behind me, Balliol breathed noisily as I bent over. Finally, I sat on the stool and crossed my legs, making sure a generous stretch of darkly nyloned thigh was showing.
“Mr. Balliol, my life is in danger. I need a bodyguard. My father is Corgi Jakinov. You might have read about him in the papers. He’s a Government witness, but the DA is afraid the bad guys might come after me, too, to get at him. I need someone to keep an eye on me.”
“The cops are supposed to do that.”
“You trust the cops in this town, Mr. Balliol? My father is a wealthy man. He will compensate you well.”
“Sure, babe, I can see why that gorgeous horseflesh needs to be guarded.” He gaped at my crossed legs. Swallowing my bile, I smiled and let one shoe dangle from a toe. He squirmed as if he were going to come, right there. “And I’m just the guy to do it,” he squeaked.
Time for the intelligence test. “Mr. Balliol, do you know anything about the Russian mob?”
“A mob of Russians? Jeez, lady, sure. I took that stuff about the battleship and the palace and the mob of Russians in high school. What the hell was it called?”
“Battleship Potemkin,” I said. “I think I’ve heard enough. You’re perfect for the job.” The other detectives I’d interviewed had turned white at the mention of the Russkies, and suddenly discovered their schedules were full. Balliol was many steps further down the IQ scale, but he was all I was going to get.
“What?”
“I said you’ll be perfect for the job.” I recrossed my legs, and he squeaked softly, like a poisoned squirrel.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I need you to stay with me, day and night. I need that big Magnum of yours between me and the bad guys.”
“Should I bring my gun, too?” he asked.
* * *
The perverted little worm was with me 24 hours a day, pawing through my underwear drawer, sticking his head in the liquor cabinet, and fiddling with the mirrors so he could watch me in the shower. Apparently he thought all mirrors worked only one way. I’ll admit I took perverse pleasure in leaving the bathroom door open, the better to drive him nuts. At my afternoon workout, Balliol gaped at my skimpy outfit, and muttered, “Whoo-ee,” and “Shake it, Olga,” and “Got room in there for me?” Afterward, he’d disappear into the bathroom for a half-hour and come out, wiping his hands on his pants.
But he did check out elevators, clear my apartment when we returned from shopping or the movies, and go through doorways before me with his pistol drawn. That didn’t worry me. The cartridges from his weapon rattled securely in a baggie in the bottom of my purse.
The first attempt came three days later, less than a week before the trial was to start. We were watching TV. Balliol insisted on Jerry Springer, and he laughed and bounced up and down on the couch as if he himself were in the studio.
The phone rang once. The signal.
Balliol began to reach for it, but it did not ring a second time. He went back to his program.
I leaped up, and grabbed his arm and my purse. “Come on, Snooky. We’ve got to get out of here, fast.”
“This’ll be over in ten minutes,” he said, never taking his eyes from the screen. I yanked him physically from the chair, dragged him out the apartment door, and herded him towards the stairwell.
“Why the stairwell?” he said, pushing past me toward the elevator lobby. At that moment, the doors slid open and a bulky man dashed out, carrying a silenced Sig. He spotted us right away and broke into a run. We raced for the stairwell, as a shot shattered a doorframe over our heads.
Snooky had pushed past me by the time we reached the end of the hall. He burst through the stairwell door, colliding with a second bulky man who had just reached the top step. Both men tumbled off the landing, but I snagged Snooky’s sleeve with my fingers and swung him into the handrail. The bigger man hurtled ass over teakettle down the concrete steps, and finished with a noisy ‘smock’ as his skull broke on the steel supports.
I turned back to the stairwell door, just as the first Russian barreled through. He was too close to bring his lengthened pistol to bear, and he instinctively threw his arms around me. Two soft pops sounded in the space between us.
“Rest in peace, Ivan,” I grinned, as the Russian’s arms slackened.
His eyes widened in surprise, and he said, in Russian, “You’re not her!” Coughed-up blood dribbled down his chin. His eyes rolled up and he slid to the floor, gazing up the stairwell as if something amazing were coming down the stairs.
“Jesus fuck,” said Snooky. “Miss Jackinoff, there’s smoke coming out of your purse!” He looked again at the fresh holes in the leather, a curl of smoke, and my wrist, still thrust inside the purse. “You’re packing! Just who the fuck are you?”
“Shush,” I said. I pulled out my cell and punched in speed-dial ‘2’. “Clean-up on stairwell two,” I said. “Two bogeys down. All the way down”
By now, my bodyguard was green and retching. I led him back to the apartment. “I thought mayhem was your business,” I said.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said. “This isn’t babysitting, is it? And you’re no Russian Valley girl. There’s something else going on.”
“I was straight up with you,” I said, “Except one or two little things.”
“Little enough to have two big thugs gunning for us?”
I shut and locked the apartment door and sat Snooky on the sofa. “To start with, my name is not Olga Jakinov. It’s Candy Tragina. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI.”
“I don’t get it. Why are you living like a princess, and shopping in ritzy stores, and pushing me ahead of you through doors and into rooms? You’ve even got me starting your car and tasting your food. Where are the other agents?”
“There’s a few around, watching and listening to keep us safe. At least during working hours. Except on weekends and Government mandated holidays.”
I lowered my voice. “We’re trying to protect the real Olga Jakinov. We’ve got her in a place where she’s safe, for now. But the Russian mob is good at finding people, especially when they’re trying to silence a witness or take revenge. So my superiors found a nearly perfect double-me. I’m to live in her apartment and shop where she shops. I even speak Russian with her inflection. We hope the Russkies will be fooled long enough.”
“So I’m your basic bullet sponge? Why did you pick me, and how can I get out of it?”
I wasn’t about to tell him we had composed our original list of PIs based on their history of screwups. We’d hired him so the Russians, thorough as ever, would assume I was ineptly guarded and use a direct frontal attack in their plan to kidnap Olga. Kill the bodyguard, then take the woman. But this woman was packing.
Instead, I said, “Because you have an enviable record of efficiency and honesty. You’ve never lost a client when bodyguarding.” I smiled sweetly. He had never guarded anyone more important than a failed rock star with no money and fewer than a dozen zealous fans.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, launching a smoke ring across the room until it vanished in the blast of a ventilation grill. “But I want out.”
“No can do, Snooky. The mob has seen you. If you knew more about them, you’d know they’ll kill everyone that works for the oppo. They’re not afraid to kill cops, or politicians, or priests. They’re not like the old-fashioned Mafia. You’re only safe as long as you work with us.”
I put a fresh clip in my pistol and started gathering my things. “The first order of business is to move to a hotel. This apartment is too exposed.”
“I’ll move to another city.”
“No, you won’t. They’ll chase you down wherever you go. You’re going to help me see this through. Now that they’ve tried a direct approach and failed, the next attempt will be more devious.”
“The next attempt? So those two guys we killed...”
“...were operatives, ciphers, nobodies. There’s a dozen more where they came from, only now they’re going to be pissed. Remember, the original plan was to kidnap Olga Jakinov, not kill her. Not right away, at least. Since they’re bound to think it was you that killed their men, they’ll be real interested in killing you, though. Probably slowly and over a few days. Our main advantage is that they won’t be expecting me to pull a gun, too.”
An FBI G-ride picked us up and moved us to a hotel across town. Snooky zeroed in on the mini-bar right away. “Would you look at the prices?” he exclaimed. “Eight-fifty for one of these!” He waved a miniature bottle of Johnny Walker at me, twisted off the cap, and swallowed it in two gulps. He grabbed another. I knocked it out of his hand.
“Listen, you dumb son of a bitch. Those Russkies could be anywhere. I want you alert and watching, not puking in the bathroom.”
I looked at myself in the mirror. My makeup was a mess, and the Russian’s blood had sprayed down my blouse and over my neck. “I’ve got to wash up. Call down to room service and get us a couple of steaks. Baked potato for me.”
I pulled the bathroom door partly closed and took off my blouse and bra. I washed the blood off my skin, and filled the sink with warm water and took a vial from my purse. It was Gore-Away, a powerful enzyme detergent favored by field agents. I was forever in inconvenient places with other people’s blood on me. By now, I routinely carried some of this stuff with me.
When I’d finished kneading the blouse in the water, I looked up suddenly and caught Snooky peering at me through the door.
“You wanted your steak medium rare, right,” he said, not looking at my eyes at all.
I turned on him. “Why don’t you have a good look now, Balliol? Because in another second, I’m going to have your eyeballs on swizzle sticks. Then you can look around corners without getting caught.”
“Aw, Candy,” he whined. “When you throw them at me like that, what am I supposed to do? I never said I was a gentleman. Anyway, you lied about your name. Why wouldn’t you lie about being a broad? The way you handle yourself, I’d a thought you were a man.”
Furious, I grabbed him behind the neck and pulled him into my breasts. “Does this convince you, gumshoe? Issat enough evidence for you?”
Instead of reflexively pulling away, I felt his lips capture a nipple and begin to suck. Electric shocks went straight to my crotch, and I decided to hold the little toad where he was, just a moment longer. And maybe a little beyond that...
I felt my skirt being lifted, and a hand touched my thigh. “Oh, Jesus,” I said, and Snooky switched nipples.
There was a knock at the door. “Shit,” said Snooky.
“Shit,”I said.
Snooky made a beeline for the door. “This better be good. I haven’t eaten all day, and the timing couldn’t be lousier.”
“Wait! Don’t open it yet!”
Snooky pulled the door open, and a smiling waiter came in, pushing a cart. The room filled with the sizzle and smell of cooked meat. A button popped from the waiter’s uniform and dinged off a wine glass. Taking a closer look, I could see that the uniform was many sizes too small for the man wearing it.
The waiter gaped at my breasts, but only for a second. He smiled like a snake, and with a flourish, lifted the cover from one of the plates, where a steak sizzled. “Mam’selle,” he said, in an accent that was not French.
“Smells great!” said Snooky, rubbing his hands.
“Snooky, get away!” I shouted.
The Russian picked up the cover from the other plate, revealing an automatic pistol. He snatched it up and raised it at me.
Snooky grabbed the plate with the hot steak and in one movement, smacked it in the Russian’s face. The man howled in pain.
I ran for my purse and pulled out my Beretta, as two more men ran in behind the Russian. Like the first man, they hesitated a split second, spotting my hooters first, and my pistol second. As quickly as I could pull the trigger, I fired in the general direction of the door. Ejected shells tinkled on the tile bathroom floor. When the hammer clicked on the empty chamber, both men lay, one across the other, pooling blood on the hotel’s swank carpet.
Snooky sat on the remaining Russian, still rubbing the hot meat into his face. The screaming man waved his pistol wildly and fired twice before I could kick it out of his hand. “That’s enough, Snooky. Let him up.”
More footsteps came running down the hall. I pounded in a fresh clip and brought the Beretta to bear on the doorway, but this time, it was Agents Curtis and Pearson. They held their ID ahead of them as they slowly revealed themselves. I lowered my pistol.
Curtis leered at my naked chest and said, “I see you used your secret weapon on these turkeys. Both barrels.”
Pearson, who was gay, said, “They still don’t beat a good set of pecs.”
The hotel was kind enough to move us to another room while the local police strung yellow tape.
“Well,” said Snooky. “Do we call room service again? Or shall we eat out.”
“I think we’ll leave that until later. Come over here, you little hunk of man.”
There was a reason Snooky wore size 13 shoes, and with the lights out and my ears stuffed with cotton, it wasn’t so bad at all.
[end]