"…we made the delivery just after 2300, and took the full payment from the ship owner at 2330," Dutch said, rattling off military time with no trouble. The ship logs were spread across Balalaika's desk, Balalaika herself running a long, acrylic nail down the manifesto as Dutch recounted the details of their recent job. The smell of the morning coffee-and-cigarette combo filled the office, drifting between their chairs tantalisingly.

Almost feels like a regular day at work, Rock thought, if he could ignore the stock of a submachine gun breaking the lines of Boris' jacket.

Well, Revy was no better, flaunting her twin pistols the way people did engagement rings. The afternoon sun glinted solid white off the polished metal, blinding Rock whenever he glanced her way. Not that there was anything to look at. Revy was out cold in her chair, snoring softly, arms crossed under her guns. Clocking in to Hotel Moscow's office right after a night delivery had finally downed her.

Beside him, Benny had muted whatever mobile phone game he was playing, much to Rock's disappointment. The electronic whirls and bleeps would have helped keep him awake, as Dutch's droning bass continued ticking off contraband.

"Two crates of whiskey… seven cartons of cigarettes… twelve Mark 2 Browning machine guns…"

Balalaika's face was drawn in concentration, making sure the tiny rows of codes and numbers matched. Her lipstick-stained cigarette lay forgotten in the ashtray as Dutch proceeded to the lists of ammunition. Rock's eyes drooped again.

"Dutch, you've done a fine job," Balalaika said, her voice ringing them awake more effectively than a bell. "There's no need for the last three pages, I think your crew's had enough." Rock jolted upright, guiltier than a schoolboy. If there was any hope that Balalaika had been making a general comment, it vanished when she fixed Rock with a wink and smile.

"I'll send your cut to the usual account," Balalaika said, waving two of her men out the office. Between them was the briefcase Lagoon Company had just delivered, holding sixty-thousand US dollars cash. Even thirteen hundred miles away, there was never a question of whose money it was. The thought of a certain Russian woman would keep any sane person from getting sticky fingers.

"Going rate's still ten percent, Balalaika," Dutch said, getting up.

"Of course," she said, picking up her cigarette. "Get some rest."

Dismissed, the rest of Lagoon Company started to file out after their boss. Rock trailed behind his colleagues, rubbing his eyes, when Balalaika suddenly looked up from her paperwork.

"A word with you, Rock?" she said.

Rock turned around, surprised. "Um, yeah. Sure." He returned Revy's questioning look with an "I'll catch up" wave, and returned to Balalaika's desk. Balalaika motioned for him to sit, shuffling the papers aside as he gingerly took the closest chair. The table was still covered in documents, but there was always room for the coffee cup.

The door shut with a thud, and Rock realised Boris had left the room too. Strange. He couldn't think of the last time the burly, scarred bodyguard had left his kapitan alone. Still, everyone knew Rock was about as dangerous as blunt scissors, so of course Boris wouldn't bother hanging around.

"Coffee?" Balalaika said, pulling out a new mug. Rock nodded, and before long was holding a steaming, black brew in his hands. Balalaika folded her hands, watching him take a few sips.

"Now," she said, eyes glinting. "Tell me how it really went."

Rock thought himself as loyal as the next man, but if a pretty lady plied him with drink and smiles, he felt obliged to tell her the truth. "Well, we didn't quite chase the smuggler down on our first try…"

Balalaika had covered the margins of the manifesto with plenty of corrections and revised figures by the time Rock finished his report. To be fair, the only number Dutch didn't inflate was the body count. Rock swirled what was left of his coffee slowly. It felt strange to give this information in person, since until recently, Balalaika was just this disembodied voice on the phone, sweetly teasing out 'forgotten' mission details with compliments and the occasional cheque.

"My, my, you guys definitely get the job done, but what's with this blood trail?" Balalaika asked dryly. "Dutch should rename his ship the 'Red Lagoon' if this keeps up."

"Actually, I think it's just Revy," Rock said, grinning. "She has to make up for me and Benny not hitting our quotas."

Balalaika laughed. "That's very true," she agreed. She laid her palms on the desk and regarded Rock thoughtfully.

"I trust you've been discrete about this little arrangement," she said.

Rock shrugged. "As much as I can," he said carefully. There was no guessing how much Dutch actually knew, or cared. He let Rock on his precious ship though, which was usually the almighty indication of how much Dutch trusted someone.

"Good," Balalaika said, pulling out a little slip of paper. Normally, the thought of extra pay was exciting, but the wall clock behind her told a different story.

"It's been an hour already?" Rock exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Shit! They'll wonder why I'm still here—"

"Calm down," Balalaika said, amused. She pulled out a thick manila folder from her 'Out' tray, handing it to him. "They won't question you if I send you back with a new contract," she continued, motioning him to open the file.

Rock obeyed, scanning the documents. It described fairly routine surveillance work, off the coast of Malaysia, but bulking the folder up was a thick sheaf of grainy faxes in the local language.

"Miss Balalaika, you know my Malay isn't that good," Rock said, frowning.

"Then this is your chance to get better," she said, her smile never changing. "We found these after fighting off a drug raid, and I'd like some warning of the next one.

"The Black Lagoon will monitor any coastal activity from the Malaysian navy, especially where they intersect our shipping routes," Balalaika continued. "Meanwhile, translate these documents into English for me, and I'll compensate you for your time."

Rock sifted through the first few pages. He could make out a coast guard report, a weather forecast and a refuelling checklist. He sighed, closing the file.

"The fee?" Rock asked. Dutch would want to know what he signed up for.

"A flat twenty-grand," Balalaika said matter-of-factly. "Don't get sunk; I don't pay ghost ships."

Right, Malaysian navy, probably the kind with firepower greater than an AK-74. Rock tucked the folder under his arm and made a mental note to check the lifeboats. Revy would call him pessimistic; Rock liked to think he was prepared.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Balalaika said as he stood up to leave. Rock blinked, following the gesture of her hand. Folded in her long nails was his cheque for a job well done.

He struggled to free an arm from the heavy folder, but Balalaika stepped around the table.

"Allow me," Balalaika said, stroking his arm. Half a head taller than him, Rock had to tilt his head up to look into those light eyes, twinkling with something resembling mischief.

"It's okay, I can—" Rock broke off as Balalaika pressed the cheque to her red lips, her eyes never leaving his. The paper make a shiik as she pulled it away, her lip print like a red stamp on its reverse. Balalaika tucked it into his breast pocket, her half-smile now a shade paler.

Balalaika was close enough for Rock to catch her perfume, a subtle coconut scent that smelled both exotic and local. Her loose hair trailed down her face, and as Rock tried to dart out of that steady gaze, he found his eyes following the blonde waves past her neck and collarbone, where her scars cut jagged lines over her shoulders and between her breasts—

Rock flushed as Balalaika laughed suddenly. She patted his cheek, which felt close to boiling.

"I'll call you soon," Balalaika promised, showing him out. His ears were filled with pounding embarrassment; Rock didn't hear the door close behind him as he took the stairs two at a time back into the sun.

"Balalaika sure has a twisted sense of humour," Benny said much later, as he looked over the coordinates they were supposed to cover.

Rock agreed, albeit for different reasons. Lying in bed that night, he turned the cheque over and over in his hands, trying to think.

On one side, Balalaika's red lipstick, smoky and inviting. On the other, a concrete, cross-signed five hundred dollars. He could even get it as cash if he was polite to the teller.

Rock folded the cheque up and tucked it back into his shirt. No one's practical joke was worth half a grand, he thought, curling into sleep.