Marked Man II - 02 (18 page)

“Nothing like a near death experience to make you crave a big meal.”

When they tried to press him on the need to get going Jordan would hear none of it.

“The Russians are going to be a little preoccupied. Every uniform in the city is down there now looking for the shooters. We can spare enough time for a proper meal.”

Neither Clemons nor Bollier pressed the point any further. The food arrived soon after and as Jordan ate his fill of pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit, and bagels his partners in crime filled him in on the new plan. When they were through explaining, Jordan looked sideways at Bollier.

“You sure about this? I mean. It’s your life, I’m just asking.”

“Trust me she deserves it. And we need a place to stay. Are we all agreed then?”

There were no objections. When the three of them left the diner Jordan got into a company car with Agent Clemons and headed due north. Bollier got in her car to cut down on the background noise and she dialed the number for Doctor Walsh’s office.

...

Three more Russians arrived at Sing Sing that week.

Boris was almost as strong as Leonid and had twice the brains of Anton.

Yakov and Ruslan were slimmer and not as physically gifted as the others, but more than made up for it in insanity. They’d put Yakov in the same cell as one of the Aryans, and within four minutes he’d bitten the man’s nose off and broken all of his fingers. Every square centimeter of Ruslan’s face was covered by an elaborate mural of prison tattoos. His eyes were mismatched, one hazel and the other sharp blue, giving him the haggard, canny appearance of a husky crossed with a gray wolf. Nobody even challenged Ruslan to find out just how crazy he was.

Shirokov regarded their presence as a mixed blessing. These new inmates protected him from the Neo Nazis and had brought funds to pay off some of the guards, it was all officially good news. And yet he did not feel he could trust them. Who had re-directed these Russians to Sing Sing, and toward what end? He could not say with any certainty.

The pangs in his stomach continued and worsened. Most of the time he spent in the cell Shirokov sat on the toilet, reading or talking with Winston as they shared the Pruno, which was not as vile as Shirokov had imagined it would be. Winston was an idyllic roommate. He made no demands and asked for no favors. He didn’t even seem to mind that Shirokov hogged the commode for most of their waking hours. As they were sharing the wine one evening Shirokov told him not to be shy about it.

“I feel bad for this. Just tell me if you need. Is no problem.”

“Nah man. I’m alight. I’ll let you know.”

“Please. Please do.”

“So you expecting a boy or a girl?”

For a split second Winston was terrified that he had tested the Russian too far, but Shirokov just laughed.

“Heh. I suppose we will find out soon. I am hoping for strong boy.”

“Strong enough to spring all these new dudes outta here?”

Shirokov shrugged.

“Maybe. We must hope. If not, and we die, then. Well, we were not free anyway. Better to die on feet than live on knees.”

“I dunno man that shit remains to be seen you ask me. Guess I’ll let you know when I’m dead.”

Shirokov nodded and drank from his mug of warm pruno. The alcohol burned his nose hairs and made his eyes water, but he made no reaction. During his time at Black Dolphin prison Shirokov had brewed and gotten drunk on things that even the thirstiest rodent in a freezing Irish village at the height of the potato famine would not have touched. By comparison the Pruno was quite pleasant.

Regarding Winston, Shirokov had been hoping to enlist him for his plan. He felt that he could trust his cellmate more than the transferred Russians, and there was the chance that he could convince some of his friends to help. Now that his potassium perchlorate and aluminum powder babies seemed due any day, Shirokov made his play.

“Weenston. I have proposition for you.”

His cellmate looked at him warily.

“Yeah I was afraid you eventually was gonna say that.”

“Hear out if you please. Just hear me out is all I ask.”

“Okay.”

“I promise you when I arrived that we would walk out of here together. This can still be done. But I would like very much to have your help, and the help of your people. These… men… these fugazi Nazis as you call them… they are problem. I can arrange for them to be problem no more, but I must have help to leave this place. What do you say?”

Winston sighed and took a long pull from his cup of Pruno. Unlike Shirokov he couldn’t help but wincing at the burn.

“Look dude I like you, so I’ll just be straight. We hate them Aryans just as much as you, maybe more. And I wanna walk out of here but it can’t be like that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re from Russia. You ain’t grow up here, you don’t know what it’s like for my people. I like you, we like you, but we ain’t about to put our ass at risk just so you and your people can get outta here. And we can’t accept your help. It’s a thing of principles, see? If we walk outta here then it’s got to be because we did it. Can’t be because some Ruskie with a bomb or whatever in his ass sprung us. You can’t lead us on no jailbreak. And you can’t help us in no war with the Aryans. We got to do it on our own. Feel me?”

Shirokov was truly sad for the first time since his days in the black solitary cell. He tried to think of an appeal to reason, or to solidarity, or anything that would convince Winston to change his mind. In the end though he knew there was nothing to be done.

“I wish it was not so, Weenston. Truly. But I understand.”

They clinked their cups together. Winston raised his before sipping.

“Make you feel any better I’m rooting for your crazy ass.”

Shirokov tossed down the last of his Pruno and said that it did.

...

Doctor Shannon Walsh’s offices were in Greenwich just off I-95. Her practice specialized in women’s health, natal care, and early childhood development. When they were dating Bollier used to tease Shannon that she was perfect with kids because their temperaments were so perfectly aligned. From the parking lot, the building looked to be twelve stories of shining blue glass and silver steel.

Bollier knew Shannon worked on the eighth floor and she wondered if she would be watching and if so what she must look like from above. An insignificant dot in a vast sea of Lexuses and Beamers, maybe, or perhaps a singular source of life and light in a dreary landscape of indolent machines.

As her heels clicked across the blacktop Bollier took a German fragrance out of her handbag and sprayed it on her neck. Bollier never bothered with such things, and she had to stoop to ask the counter girl at Bloomingdale’s that morning which scent she would recommend for a long night. The girl said that she knew just the thing and reached for a heart-shaped flacon with a gold stopper. She sprayed it on Bollier’s wrist.

“Lovely isn’t it? Can you smell the peony?”

Bollier nodded, not wanting to look like a rube.

“It’s very subtle, mixed in there beneath all that brazen mandarin orange. I like to think of it as being nestled between petals of jasmine and the lily of the valley, waiting on a bed of amber, Virginia cedar and musk.”

Because she felt she should say something Bollier said “It smells soapy to me.” The counter girl nodded and smiled the way a person does at an idiotic remark made by a sweet but senile woman in a nursing home. Bollier used her cop’s voice.

“Just give me the damn box.”

But now as she entered the elevator Bollier was glad she’d taken the counter girl’s recommendation. Even if she couldn’t tell peony from any of other notes she had to admit that the overall effect was intoxicating. There were two men on either side of her in the elevator and it seemed that they were not immune to the effect.

On the eighth floor Bollier got out and worked her through the labyrinth of sterile hallways. It was silent as the grave save for the humming of the fluorescent lights overhead. When she found the office she strode up to the desk. The nurse told her to sign the guest book and have a seat.

Bollier grabbed a sports magazine from the rack and sat down. A kid sitting across the way, maybe two or three years old stared at her until his mom told him not to be rude.

The kid dawdled over to a set of giant Legos in the corner. His mother grinned proud and ashamed all at once.

“Sorry about that. I’m trying to get him to stop staring at strangers.”

“It’s fine.”

Bollier hoped that her presence would not invite a conversation about procreation. It was a vain hope.

“Are you expecting? You certainly don’t look it.”

“No. Just ovulating.”

That shut her up and Bollier passed the time in peace, reading about the most recent grand failures of the New York Knicks to land another marquee free agent.

Mothers made her feel uncomfortable, insecure, so she relished the chance to return the favor. Mothers acted like they were superior to every other woman; like they had performed some great miracle or sacrifice by getting knocked up, and were in on a secret that only a mother could know or understand. Mothers filled Bollier with loathing.

If she felt disagreeable about mothers their broods outright gave her the creeps. Bollier did not know why. She wondered whether it was a cause or a result of her orientation. She found the whole idea of pregnancy repulsive; the fluids, the swelling, the pain. The child acted as a parasite, feeding on its mother until it was strong enough to break free. It was like the scene from Alien when the creature burst out of John Hurt’s chest. Why anyone would subject themselves to something like that was beyond her reckoning.

Worse than the pregnancy was the idea of being responsible for another human being. That idea filled her with a cold terror a thousand times more savage than any science fiction monster. Bollier’s analytical disposition uniquely suited her for being a detective, and in her mind made her patently unfit for parenthood. She was neither shy nor passionate about sex. This odyssey to Greenwich was a perfect representation of what it meant for the detective. Sex was like food or water; a necessary hunger to be fulfilled and nothing more, but the logical result was a nightmare. Women were not only far more physically alluring than men, but laying with them carried no awful risk of pregnancy, no lasting attachments and obligations. It was perfectly logical. Bollier suspected that there were far more women like her than anyone would ever know. She liked it that way.

A brother and sister on the far side of the waiting room were squealing over a toy as their mother begged them to be quiet. Bollier felt vindicated.

“Leslie Bollier?” A nurse called out.

She got up and followed the nurse to an empty examination room. The nurse asked her to lay on the table and told her to get comfortable.

“Doctor Walsh will be with you in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.”

After the nurse closed the door and she laid down Bollier felt her heart rate pick up. It had been months since she’d seen Shannon, and they hadn’t parted on friendly terms, but she hadn’t had a decent toss since. The mere whiff of Shannon was enough to excite her. What was more enticing was the knowledge that she could seduce another person so easily. Shannon would play hurt, be coy, maybe for a few minutes, then she would melt like a chocolate bar in one of those little brat’s hands.

Witnessing the prowess of her seduction in action and the promise of solid sex were nice, but Bollier’s greatest anticipation was for revenge. Shannon had cheated on her. She’d walked right in on it with Jordan Ross. Ever since that humiliation had never ventured far from her heart, even with the looming threat of the Russians. Now Bollier was going to get her back. She would fuck Shannon silly, use her for the cabin, and then when the dust cleared and it was safe to leave, dump her post haste. A perfect circle of justice served.