A notice for those to whom this chapter might look familiar: indeed, it isn't new. It has become 37 after I decided to split an old chapter (3) into two parts as I was rewriting it. My apologies if you were waiting for what comes next, but don't worry, it will come. :)
Playlist continuing… Chapter thirty-seven
Sam Butera & The Witnesses, "Let the Good Times Roll"
"Hey hey everybody… let's have some fun…
You only live but once…
But when you're dead you're done.
So let the good times roll..."
"Got a ring now?"
Catching the reference to the square signet-style band that sat on his right ring finger, Goldo rubbed it with a slight smirk.
"More like a public-friendly knuckle duster."
Kaiko tilted her head back with a squint. A suspicion crept over her that she once stood in the shoes of the poor sap who'd just eaten the piece of black steel head-on – back on Hong Kong's rooftops. Well, hopefully that all was far behind them now.
"Hah, why am I not even surprised.", she snickered.
Not too far from them, at the reception desk, Jessi was talking over the phone. At the other end of the line was Zukovsky, whom she was informing of his special guest's arrival. As she would reveal a bit later on, she chose to keep the mystery on the latter's identity –yet it didn't take long until she could be heard saying;
"Хорошо, сейчас будем." (Khorosho, seychas budem., Alright, we'll be right there.)
Turning at her audience she made a brief pointing-down gesture, then went back at terminating the call.
"What's that all about?"
"You being allowed to meet the resident Soviet bear, come on.", the half-Asian said, giving the visitor's arm a pat as she set out.
Soon the oily concierge was notified he had to give the newcomer a good room not too far from the girls', and from then on the preparations were fairly quick. All Goldo had to do was to drop his stuff and swap his belted black jeans for a matching chino, for his very distinctive dark suit jacket and charcoal Henley already complied with his host's idea of a proper attire. When Kaiko and Jessi were done as well they found him leaning cross-armed next to their door, his right eye gleaming gold again – he had definitely noticed that his female counterpart didn't bother with contacts anymore.
On her account, the latter also had to tackle the local distaste for jeans, which is why she sported navy blue corduroy slacks along with a light gray wool top and her trusty white jacket. As for her best friend, she had put on a white blouse and black pegged pants; but most importantly, a raspberry-colored blazer. She had to be up to some cheekiness that night, as this was not just a way to contrast with Kaiko's starkness, but a notorious piece of 90s Russian mafia fashion. To match this and Goldo's weaponized signet, the half-Asian felt in sore need of a stylish bandit accessory of her own… but she couldn't think of one just yet.
Anyhow, no plainclothes guard came to ask them to state their business when they went down the stairs to L'Or Noir's infamous ballroom. Instead the door clicked to let them in, and it was with the regulars' firm step that they entered the crowd of illegal gamblers, then passed the curtain to the director's office. As one might have expected, the baldhead was on shift. Remaining committed to his duty, he checked without a word that the shady guy he couldn't place didn't carry a piece. As a matter of fact, the concerned party didn't.
Once the compulsory search was carried out, Kaiko simply knocked at the door from which Valentin's sonorous laughter already sounded. She was surprised to see Artyom opening it. It was the first time she saw him ever since passing the Azerbaijani border. He had traded his thick aviator jacket for a black turtleneck, but other than that his short bob of brown hair and round gray eyes had stayed from her blurred memories.
"Не помешаем?" (Ne pomeshayem?, Are we interrupting anything?), she asked.
"Нет." (Nyet., No, you're not.) With a nod he invited them all in. "Это девушки, босс." (Eto devushki, boss., It's the girls boss.)
"Ah, ladies!"
In this instance the pleased exclamation didn't come from the hardwood desk and ever so outrageous throne chair. It did from a recessed bar the half-Asian hadn't spotted on her first visit, beyond the seductive bronze nymph she still wanted to smash against the wall. The wooden parts were solid Caucasian oak, the glasswork came custom from Odessa. No expense had been spared, especially with a stock of bottles that put the term 'liquor cabinet' to shame. Then there were the barely concealed CCTV monitors, allowing the KGB veteran to watch over his turf at complete leisure. Old habits died hard, it seemed.
"So who is it you brought me, hm?", Valentin asked.
He stood right in the middle of his shrine to the wine gods while one brazen Mr. Bullion slouched on the rightmost stool, looking up from the screens on the opposite wall. Giving the watchful figure behind his newest associates a better look, the master of the house was quick to figure out the answer for himself;
"Oh, let me guess. Mr.… Hunter, is that right?"
"Mr. Zukovsky?"
"Himself, welcome to my humble abode. Drink?"
"Sure."
'I didn't care who a man was as long as he could hold his drink.' Tolstoy couldn't have been more apt at describing how these two, however apart their worlds were, could click instantly. 'Boys will be boys', Kaiko added to herself, not looking forward to joining them. With the time-honored toast to friendship in order, she'd rather they forgot about her for a bit. The first thing that caught her attention enough to keep her away was the bookcase standing next to Zukovsky's unguarded desk; inevitably, she found herself comparing it to her memories of the two-faced's own personal collection.
If her observations showed anything, it would be that the readings of a stuffy tsarist and of a nostalgic of the Soviet era were symptomatic of their respective ideologies. The bulk of the literature stored here was technical, covering such topics as security, IT or even locksmithing. Fiction was limited to a single vintage hardcover entitled Ошибка резидента (Oshibka rezidenta, The Secret Agent's Blunder), but that was almost a miracle in itself, considering the low priority given to mass entertainment in the days of non-market economy.
Aside from a shelf-ful of files, the thirty-one thick maroon spines of the Большая советская энциклопедия (Bol'shaya sovetskaya entsiklopediya, Great Soviet Encyclopedia) filled the remaining space, their golden titles allowing them to pay a visual tribute to the colors of the Union. They had to be there only for the prestige they once represented, though. Finally, two frames stood out. One held a photograph of what she assumed to be a much younger, slightly thinner Zukovsky posing with a fellow countryman in full general's regalia; the other, four shiny medals.
The first was a specimen of the very respectable Red Star, begging the question of what kind of great deed its owner achieved to deserve such a prestigious award. The second was a cog topping the words 'Трудовая слава' (Trudovaya slava, Labor Glory), the third the dull combination of a gray ribbon and piece of sterling marked 'За отвагу' (Za otvagu, For Courage). The last and most mysterious one of these, but also prettiest, simply had the Soviet emblem, a laurel wreath and the letter 'Х' struck in brass. Or was it the Roman numeral?
"Taking an interest in me, I see... Don't get too used to it."
She turned around and faced the assembly watching her from the bar. She could perceive the note of annoyance in Valentin's usual banter, even when he shelled out for his most unctuous intonation;
"Will you toast with us miss Morikawa?"
"We're in a Muslim country, what about religious dictates?", she taunted back.
"Hah, but the Quran doesn't forbid alcohol, only drunkenness. At least the people here are smart enough to know that."
Now this had to contradict the views of many a believer, but someone like Bullion making that kind of remark wasn't too much of a stretch. Meanwhile, his boss addressed Jessi;
"Are you sure she lived in Russia?"
"As certain as on you drinking too much."
As if disheartened by the blonde girl's just as playful lack of commiseration, he tried to call for the men's with a grandiloquent lift of his head and sweep of his palm-up hand.
"What can I say, I am 'too much'."
Kaiko could have kept turning down the drink at least to keep the jokes going, but she had to face the fact she'd better accept it. Not to pretend she enjoyed it, but because she needed to make a political statement. She had become the unwitting junction between two parties that would have never rubbed shoulders otherwise, but that was in her best interests after all. Hence she went to take a seat – thankfully not the center one as Jessi had chosen it already, but not the far left one either as Goldo had got the same idea himself. Sitting right in between she didn't mind.
"Don't sit there mumbling… and talking trash…
If you wanna have a ball…
You gotta spend some cash.
So let the good time roll..."
"За встречу, и за дружбу!" (Za vstrechu, i za druzhbu!, To our meeting, and to friendship!)
Everyone raised their shot glass in unison to Zukovsky's toast. As the custom prescribed, and as taking smaller sips would give the alcohol an even worse kick, the half-Asian resolved herself to down it in one gulp. Try as she might to play it off, she knew everyone had noticed her wince at the burn in her throat; but that was only fair against her quiet curses at the vodka and the Russian obsession with it.
"How was it?", the mobster asked with a schoolboy's giddiness.
"To your credit, less atrocious than the самогон (samogon, moonshine) Janus thugs are so fond of."
"I see my dishonorable rival is too good to indulge his flock."
Neither of the girls could argue with that. Janus was certainly keener on enjoying a drink in polite company than among the lowest end of the chain of command. What was worse for him though, the lack of manners of these faceless, nameless people or the fact that most didn't – and shouldn't – have the slightest clue that he was the top man in person?
"Well if you aren't yourself, hand over the закуски (zakuski, appetizers).", Kaiko responded.
This was less of an attempt to flatter her host's ego than to ward off the tipsiness she already felt. The Russians were obsessed with their national drink, true, but also had enough experience with it to know that the key to more drinking was to keep their stomachs full during the process . Or at least, the key not to pass out after a few shots.
"Does that mean I may count you in my own flock then?"
Somehow the question disconcerted her. As predictable as it were, she found herself without a good answer to give. 'Yes' was too soon, 'no' too categorical, 'maybe' too on the nose. Still she knew that this was nowhere as innocent as it sounded, and that politics commanded to take a quick decision. Hers was to give a side look to Jessi as if to discuss the proposition, which resulted in the blond girl dashing to her rescue;
"Depends on the закуски."
Now that was the most perfect return of the ball back into his court, complete with the tone and collected shrug of an accomplished negotiator. The half-Asian had a relieved smile; 'что бы я делала без тебя, сестричка?' (chto by ya delala bez tebya, sestrichka?, what would I do without you, sis?) Nonetheless, Valentin had to be bent on hearing a resolute 'yes'. Next thing he did was to take these as the magic words to summon a wider variety of hors-d'œuvres than any of the guests could have imagined.
There were the traditional pickles, including both cucumbers and tomatoes; smoked fish like herring, sprats and even sturgeon; various types of salami and other cold meat cuts; and mimosa eggs. But this almost full-fledged dinner was not all, as evidenced by the presence of a stack of блины (bliny, crepes) and saucer of sour cream on the side. Just as the half-Asian understood what they announced, Zukovsky pulled out of the bar fridge one last item. La pièce maîtresse – a glass bowl of black caviar, laid on top of a larger dish filled with crushed ice.
"Это 'малосол'?" (Eto 'malosol'?, Is this Malossol caviar?)
Jessi was so taken aback by this flex of muscles in food form that her Russian came out quicker than her English. Of course, the flexer gave a particularly proud nod in response;
"Freshly harvested from my own farm. 'От Зуковского, высший сорт' (Ot Zukovskogo, vysshiy sort, Zukovsky's Finest), the world's most renowned tables are fighting over it."
"How do you eat that?"
Goldo's query was answered by Bull flashing a small mother-of-pearl spoon at him;
"Simple, you take one of these and dig straight in."
To complete his demonstration, the Somalilander proceeded to excavate, then ingest the biggest spoonful he could take. If the unadulterated delight on his face was to be believed, he had ascended to heaven in one bite. That was enough to prompt the newcomer to Russian etiquette to follow suit, but not before he took a quizzical look at his own spoon.
"Any contact with metal would denature the caviar's delicate taste.", Zukovsky explained. "But if I may suggest, putting some on a crepe with a dollop of cream can make it even better – especially the first time."
That was not Kaiko's opinion. Her Japanese palette would go for fish roe on its own any day, but she kept that to herself. Same for her suspicions that either these were the eggs of poached beluga sturgeon, or else Valentin kept the Malossol, the highest quality, least salted product, for his own personal consumption – if he did comply with international law. Instead, she silenced these dissenting thoughts with sprats on buttered rye bread, while her best friend and Artyom helped themselves to some salami and pickles. The host refilled the glasses of those in need, and treating himself to a hearty serving of good old Soviet-style meat jelly he announced;
"Anyway, bon appétit."
"Hey hey mister landlord, lock up all the doors…
When the cops come around…
Tell 'em the joints been closed.
So let the good times roll..."
"So... who did the out and back to Saint Petersburg?"
The ex-MI6 agent had bended cross-armed on the bar top to have everyone in sight as he spoke. The assembly being more or less busy feasting, the answer was a collective wave at Artyom. The latter lowered his head a little, as though overwhelmed with all the sudden attention.
"My man Artyom, always dead serious when it comes to a job.", Bullion cheerfully stated, laying his arm on his comrade's shoulder. "Too bad he keeps a bit too much of the seriousness the rest of the time."
"You forget the girls Bull. I just helped."
For the very first time Artyom had ventured to speak English, right after accepting Goldo's nod of appreciation with a slow blink of his eyes and pushing his invasive buddy away. His accent was thick and his uncertainty as to whether he chose the right words was obvious, which was all the more touching when added to the mixture of shyness and modesty emanating from him. What was someone so self-conscious even doing in the underworld? First things that came to mind were a vengeance or loyalty bond, but it surely would be interesting to find out.
"Ah yes, the blood sisters." The golden-teethed man now showed Jessi and her crimson jacket. "See this one, she even looks the part."
"No, this one thinks she can challenge me in my own house. What is your defense on that, lady?", his boss scoffed.
The Russian girl giggled. 'Blood sisters' did have a nice ring to it; but knowing her, her greatest pleasure was to finally have someone commenting on her bold fashion statement.
"Valentin Dmitrievich, can't you see I'm honoring the old days?"
"I'll give you old days – you weren't even born when people wore these.", he said, downing another vodka with the arrogance of a hardliner.
"Who says I wasn't? I'm old enough to have lived in СССР (Es-Es-Es-Er, the USSR) for one year."
"Precisely my point."
As the heated debate kept going on the other side of the counter, the half-Asian felt a light tap on her left arm. When she turned around, Goldo gestured her to get closer;
"Would have helped, but I don't know jack about these parts. Plus the notice was too short.", he told her, his voice low so he couldn't be heard by anyone else.
"Would you?"
"Yeah, I'm interested to see a bit of the other side."
"Is that why you came here?"
He shrugged. Focusing back on the others, she tried to figure out his hidden motives. For all she knew, they had to do with Goldfinger; but she sensed something else beyond his impassive front. Something she couldn't quite deduce yet.
"It makes no difference… if its rainy weather…
Birds of a feather… must stay together…
So come on… all you swingers…
And let the good times roll."