REWRITTEN 11/29/2022
WARNING: Some sensitive language is used in this chapter regarding women and members of the Russian and Italian American communities.
These characters' opinions do not reflect my own in any way. (It's the 1970's)
CHAPTER 5
Mickey didn't get much of an opportunity to scope out the lobby of The Aura Club. He had no idea where he was going in that place, and he'd planned on relying upon Rose and Dimitri to act as his Aura Club spirit guides for the night. They promised him as much, but so far, they were terrible spirit guides. The night was still young, and he was already fairly certain his spirit was hosed.
After wiping the debris from Rose's sneeze off of his face with a bar towel Eddie brought into the corridor by mistake, and after Mickey and Eddie ceased belly-laughing at his misfortune long enough to exchange speedy but earnest "Hey, nice meeting you, man," and "Come over for dinner sometime, Ma would love it," farewells, Dimitri charged out of the same door via which Rose took her exit just moments ago. He'd made a solemn vow to himself in the shower that he would remain glued to her side tonight, no matter what, yet she somehow managed to give him the slip right off the bat through the surprise use of biological warfare. That gargantuan sneeze could very well have been planned for all he knew.
Mickey had to run just to keep up with Dimitri. The giant Russian bastard had legs for damn days, and he was moving at full stride. They blazed through the coat check area, encumbered only by having to weave around the two beautiful young women working in there for the shift. He noted that there were quite a few fur coats in the check area which made no sense on such a hot summer night. They quickly traversed the club's lobby where multiple bouncers formed a barrier between the crowd and the main event. These were the people who already passed the initial screening process outside. Many individuals were turned away at the front door for dress code violations or because they were already way too drunk to be served more alcohol in the club without becoming a nuisance. It was a bit ironic considering who the club's owner was - a problem drinker with a penchant for public nudity.
The people waiting in the lobby were in a holding pattern to stagger the rush for the bars inside. The bouncers weren't going in order of first come first served when granting permission to enter. They were moving down the queue and selecting people by group size and the ratio of attractive would-be female patrons to their male companions. Hot girls were priority one, and guys with cash to spend were priority two. Everyone else should just count themselves lucky to make the cut at all. Mickey couldn't tell if the money he saw exchanging hands was for a cover charge or if it all fell under the category of a bribe. It could have been a bit of both. The room was dimly lit and loud. Many of the people stuffed into it like sardines were rather pissed off that he and Dimitri just waltzed right past every single one of them and through the heavily curtained grand entrance without so much as a sideways glance from those in charge. The bouncers all knew Rose's boyfriend by sight. As they walked by, Mickey could pick out random comments from the din, mostly kvetching.
Oh, what the fuck, man!?
Who are those two blowing to cut the entire line?
Camille, that guy in the leather jacket is so hot!
These heels are killing me!
I just want some fucking cocaine.
He lingered for a beat to soak up a little of the selfish glee that accompanied preferential treatment before following Dimitri into the club. It felt good to have a room full of people think he might be a somebody. A moment was all he could spare, though. They had a Rose Hathaway to track down, and he needed another drink, or three, so he could work on being his own spirit guide.
Teach a man to fish, and he'll drink alcohol and fish for a lifetime.
"Ho-ly Shit… Ho-ly Shit… wouldja dig this crazy scene."
Mickey didn't know what to expect from the inside of The Aura Club. The transformation of Fat Sal's was impressive enough, but it was small potatoes compared to the club next door. Most things he'd ever seen before were small potatoes compared to this place. He froze next to Dimitri, legitimately awestruck. One thing was for certain, Adrian Ivashkov knew how to make beautiful things. The Aura Club was designed to look like a Moroccan pavilion at nighttime. Rather than Studio 54 black, the walls were an inky dark midnight blue. The entire left side of the main floor was a wall-to-wall bar. There were several men working behind it, all in white dress shirts and narrow ties like the ones the Beatles wore when they first crossed the pond. The bar itself was made of granite, and the base of it was covered in vibrant mosaic tiles. Behind it was a massive backlit wall of nothing but booze with rolling library ladders available to reach the dearest bottles on offer. At the far side of the room there was a raised platform that looked like it might have been created by repurposing a huge mosaic tile fountain, and served as a booth for the two men who were playing the music. They had sound equipment and countless records stacked all around them. There were two curved staircases situated at either side of the booth that met in the middle right above it before leading to the second floor. The staircases were painted the same blue as the walls, and they were outfitted with handrails made of glinting brass. The riser of each step was individually lit a soft glowing white, and the sweeping structures gave the visual effect of ensconcing the dj booth in starry twilight. The wall facing the bar contained six large alcoves that looked to be reserved for the expensive bottle service Rose mentioned earlier in the evening. Each alcove was framed on either side by blue pillars with tile bases, and the wall space surrounding the openings were covered in massive ornate gold borders. Their interiors were painted a deep shade of blood red and were illuminated by large stained glass pendant lamps suspended from golden chains. Stained glass was the lighting scheme of the entire space. There was an enormous mirrored ball suspended from the ceiling over the middle of the polished near-black wood dance floor, but the other lighting was designed to cast a vibrantly saturated colorful glow fragmenting over everything like sunshine through the stained glass windows of a mosque or cathedral. The dance floor was already filling up with people who were ready to show off their moves to the world after spending an hour or more waiting in line to see if they would even make it inside. One could almost see the steam some of them were trying to blow off on that sea of choppy polyester waves. The room was beginning to grow humid from it.
Two tall brass pillars were installed toward the edges of the dancefloor close to the dj booth. The pedestals nearly reached the second floor level of the club, and were topped with what appeared to be giant brass bird cages. These cages didn't contain birds, though. They each held a scantily clad woman dancing very provocatively. Mickey guessed one of the ladies must be Eddie's fiancée Jill. He didn't know if she was the tall thin icy blonde or the tall thin curly haired dirty-blonde. They were both strikingly beautiful and very limber. Either way, Eddie was an extremely lucky guy. He was having trouble taking his eyes off of them. It was enchanting the way they moved with such wild abandon and grace.
"See something yah like?" A female voice whispered into his ear.
"What?!" Mickey jolted back to earth. They hadn't located Rose, but she'd found them. She was leaning back against Dimitri's chest, sipping a yellowish cocktail from a martini glass, and had probably been watching him gawp at the cage dancers for the last thirty seconds or so. He must have looked like a pervert or a backwoods rube.
"I was talking about the club, not Lissa and Jill's dancing prowess, Mickster." Rose waggled her eyebrows at him, but mercifully left her teasing at that. "I've never been to a pavilion in Fez or Marrakech at midnight, so I have nothing to compare it to." She sipped her drink and continued. Her voice altered slightly like she was slipping into character. "I don't think he was really aiming for total authenticity here. He wanted to capture a mood, and he was wildly successful at doing that. There is definitely an atmosphere of sensuality mixed with a touch of the divine in here, and maybe a little blasphemy too… at least that's some of the shit I'm supposed to shovel at these investor guys tonight when they ask. And I have to sound like a slatternly local weather girl while I do it." Behind her, Dimitri tensed a little at her last comment and tried to mask his displeasure by leaning down to kiss a stray curl near her ear. "All joking aside," she continued, either missing or electing to ignore her backrest's reaction, "this place is really impressive. I have no idea who handled the technical aspect of designing this lighting, but they sure know what they're about."
Mickey coughed a bit and nodded. Dimitri just grunted.
"Lordy, you two need some more drinks." She wiggled out of Dimitri's hold. "You both sound positively cro magnon. C'mon. The far side of the bar near the booth is usually the fastest line. Shane's the best bartender in the house when Eddie's not around. Just don't tell him I said that, or he'd never let me live it down."
They made their way over to the small line forming at the far right corner of the bar. Mickey was all eyes and ears taking in every detail along the way. The Aura Club was pure decadence, and keeping his excitement in check was making him a little wobbly on his feet. He fully intended to dance tonight, but first, he wanted to check out the upstairs area and possibly locate some more drugs. For a guy who'd never tried cocaine before tonight, he certainly took to it like a duck to water.
Not a duck.
"Hey Rose, taking advantage of a night off and looking to double fist it?" The bartender, Shane as it read on his gold nametag, asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the beverage she was already holding in her hand when she leaned up against the bar in front of Mickey and Dimitri.
"Nah," she replied, "you're just so damn slow at making drinks that I had Clarke make this one for me to enjoy at my leisure while I wait here for what feels like forever and ever."
"Is that right?" He smiled, clearly amused.
"Yeah, that's right." She took a slow sip to demonstrate. "Must be all those jazz bones you smoke, man. You're far too chill to make any haste."
"Not everyone likes to tussle with the party powder, Rose. Some of us prefer to indulge in what nature provides." He looked up at Dimitri and Mickey, giving them each a quick nod before glancing back to Rose. "What'll you three have?"
She didn't hesitate to order for all of them this time, lest she be coerced into having another giant shot ladled down her throat. "Two gin and tonics, and one vodka soda with Angostura bitters - doubles."
"Shaka." Shane closed the three middle fingers on his right hand and shook his wrist with his pinky and thumb extended before lining up three pint glasses on the rubber mat.
"...uhhhh…sure dude," she replied, having no idea what he'd just said to her. "I like the haircut, by the way. Lookin' sharp. Was it yearbook picture day at school?" She asked, leaning over the bar to watch as he dug around down below in search of something.
Born and raised in Southern California, Shane surfed professionally in Hawaii for five years until a torn ACL that never properly healed bumped him off the circuit for good. When he first came to work at the club a few months prior, he had perpetually dirty shoulder-length, sun-bleached hair. Tonight he was sporting a short light brown haircut you could set your fucking watch to, and he no longer looked like he reeked of pot and BO… but boy did he ever.
Rose wasn't sure he'd heard her joke until he stood back up and rolled his eyes at her. "Thanks, but I didn't do it because I wanted to. I got head lice from my roommate, and I couldn't get rid of the tinsey fuckers any other way." He scratched the back of his neck instinctively.
"Gross!" She squealed, taking a step back. "Why the hell would you say shit like that to me right before making me a drink?"
"We all gotta get our kicks where we can, Rose." He flashed her a brilliant toothy smile before drumming his hands on the bar and pushing off. "I'm low on gin. Lemme grab another bottle of Bombay. Be right back with those doubles."
"Get a job, yah bum!" She shouted after him, only half joking.
"Hathaway -"
Rose practically jumped out of her skin at the sound of her last name and sloshed her drink all over the ground in the process. Quickly recognizing the disembodied voice, she turned in every direction until she located the responsible party. "WHAT THE FUCK, HANS!?" She demanded.
"Mr. Ivashkov sent me down here to fetch you," the man now standing directly in front of her continued, disregarding her shocked reaction to his sudden appearance. "His guests have arrived at the front entrance, and I'll be escorting them up to the studio myself, presently. He'd like you to be there before they are."
Hans Croft was Adrian's Head of Security and personal bodyguard. He'd served with the 75th Infantry in Vietnam, and he scared the piss out of almost everyone he encountered. Part of the reason he had this effect on people was that he possessed the single most intense disposition of anyone Rose had ever met, including Janine. He always looked like a gasket ready to blow sky-high under a deceptively calm front, and she was pretty sure if you stuck a hunk of coal up his ass you'd have yourself a diamond in short order. He was also built like a 6'5" refrigerator and sported a floating black leather patch over the left eye he lost somewhere in the Mekong River Delta - earning him an honorable discharge before most men in the states were even drafted.
Hans went wherever Adrian went, meaning Rose was around him all the time. She'd grown accustomed to the severe man's rather imposing presence, and no longer found him objectively terrifying and generally disconcerting as most people did - unless he was sneaking up on her like a thief in the night, that is. "Jesus. Where did you even come from? You made me spill my drink."
Mickey and Dimitri were similarly taken aback by the abruptness of Hans' arrival on the scene. The three of them had all been temporarily distracted by the challenge of trying not to stare at a woman gyrating nearby on the dancefloor whose left breast had flopped out of the cowl neck of her satin dress. They couldn't tell if she knew it had happened or not. She'd just continued dancing for two whole songs with her exposed nipple grooving along to the beat with her. There was also a man out there who'd split the seat of his pants, so his white jockey shorts became more visible or less visible through the gaping hole in his ass depending on his dance moves. Rose had finally made the decision to discreetly do each of the unfortunate strangers a solid by informing them of their wardrobe issues when their surprise visitor faded in from the abyss, giving them all a heart attack.
"My apologies," Hans stated flatly, "I'm sure you'll locate another."
"Was that a joke, Hans? It had the smack of humor to it." She observed with a smirk.
"No."
"Good. Jokes can lead to lightening up, and we can't have you doing any of that, now can we?"
"No. We can't."
"Is something the matter?" Rose asked, leaning forward to get a closer look at him. "You appear on the verge of a facial expression. There's a little flickering by your mouth."
Hans almost sighed. "You should go up there now. He was expressing concerns about his choice of… attire."
Rose did sigh. She didn't like the sound of that. Hans was superb at his job, but he relied heavily upon Rose to help him deal with their employer when he was at his most manic and intransigent. Regimented military warrior types were often not equipped to handle the volatile emotions of sheltered, rudderless artistic types. Hans handled Adrian's meltdowns like a deadbeat dad handled weekend visitation rights with his son: he'd drive up to Rose's house three hours ahead of schedule to off a hysterical Adrian, saying, "I don't know what his problem is. Here, you're his mother. You deal with it," before speeding away in his convertible and never looking back - metaphorically speaking.
As if on cue, Hans took his leave of the conversation without saying another word, or even acknowledging Mickey and Dimitri's existence - he just pivoted and marched off toward the Exit, bodily sidestepping anyone who got in his way. No politeness, just forward momentum. Rose watched him go, thinking to herself he probably reached his quota of fifty words for the day and had to leave before he turned to stone or something. Hans was the only person she knew who spoke less than Dimitri. Of course, many of the words she pulled from Dimitri were the byproduct of vigorous sexual activity. He got a little chatty in his post-coital state, and it was one of the more adorable things about him. She had no intention of rolling around in the hay with Hans just so she could hear him explain why he was one of those people who still preferred The Godfather over The Godfather: Part II. If those still waters run deep, good for them.
"Okay, you jive turkeys," Rose segued to her boyfriend and friend, resigned to her fate - yet resolute, "it's time for this hoochie to move her coochie. That's basically the gist of what Hans said, I think." She set down her third empty martini glass on the nearest tray she could find, shook her hand off a bit, and returned to her previous spot to stretch up on her toes and quickly kiss her man before heading upstairs.
Dimitri was having none of it, however. He refused to be kissed. "You can say goodbye to him, but I'm coming with you," he informed her.
"Uhhh…no you're not."
"Uhhh…yes I am," he insisted.
Mickey took a big drink. He knew where this was headed, and it wasn't going to be getting there without shouting. And maybe shoving.
"Dimitri -" Rose crossed her arms, exasperated but not surprised.
Dimitri crossed his arms, continuing to play the copycat. "Rose?"
"Please don't be this way right now," she begged, trying the nice approach first. Usually, his overprotective side got her a little hot and bothered, but right now it was purely an inconvenience.
"What way am I being?" He demanded, now playing dumb.
"Difficult."
"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing." Dimitri's accent was beginning to thicken.
"Adrian was very clear that you were not invited to the business portion of this evening's festivities," Rose explained, her tone sharp. Nice wasn't going to work - clearly. "He says you'll fuck up the casual atmosphere with all your jaw clenching and rifle polishing."
"I don't have my rifle with me tonight. Or my front porch and rocking chair. And I'm not asking for permission," he added.
Rose tossed her hands up in the air, "Well, that's a relief because none would be granted."
"I don't want you going up there by yourself to a room full of men you don't know, dressed like..." Dimitri thrust a hand of his own in her direction, trying and failing to come up with an accurate description of her appearance. At the moment, Rose looked like a mouthwatering caramel chocolate treat wrapped up in a golden ticket - with perfect tits. "THAT!"
"Hans is going to be there the whole time. We'll be safe as houses." She reassured him, trying to calm herself down in the process. "This shouldn't take very long, and I will come down to get you both before anything that even feels like a party starts."
"Rose, I'm not letting you -"
Rose cut him off. "Letting?" She asked. "What is this talk of letting?"
"I'm not letting you go -"
Rose cut him off again. "To work! You're preventing me from doing my job right now."
"Your job?" Dimitri scoffed, knowing he sounded like an asshole because only assholes scoffed. "You're training to be a nurse. That's your job. This is a bunch of silly nonsense Adrian's roped you into. You're just too kind to say no to him ever."
"Unless you are planning on physically restraining me, there isn't any letting for you to do." She poked his chest with an authoritative finger. "I'm going up there, you are staying down here, and if you don't like it then you can fucking lump it as hard as you want!" Rose was too annoyed for kissing now. "BYE," she snarled - a stingy, spare farewell was all he was getting from her until he relocated those world-famous manners of his.
Dimitri knew everything he just said was stupid while he was saying it. There was simply no reasoning with his possessive streak when it came to that woman. Something rooted deep in his brain just kept shouting, 'MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE!' But it was his problem to sort out, not hers. He didn't want her walking away from him angry. Rose made it four steps before his hand shot out to grab her by the wrist. He stepped forward while pulling her to him, and their bodies firmly collided somewhere in the middle. "I'm sorry. You're right, and I'm an idiot." Before she had the chance to snap back at him or jab an elbow into him, he leaned over and slammed his tongue into her mouth. He knew his girl. Rose was a woman of many words, but she only really responded to action. And this was her favorite fucking kind of action. He was apologizing to her and staking his claim in her all in a single rough maneuver. If he couldn't go up to that apartment with his Roza, then she was going up there alone with him absolutely smeared all over her.
Rose tried to cuss at him in protest and yank herself from his hold, but it was nothin' doin'. With his vicelike grip and relentless oral onslaught, Dimitri had rendered her powerless to do anything but disintegrate into a heap of small wet moans in his arms right there on the outskirts of the dancefloor.
Meeting? What meeting?
Mickey gave them a couple of minutes to go at it before deciding he was officially done watching the two of them suck face for the evening. Their lovers' quarrel was resolved now, so as far as he was concerned any more of this behavior was just extraneous making out. He cleared his throat as loudly as he could and told them people were starting to stare. "You guys?! This place is crawling with a bunch of pervy lookie-loos."
Believing him, they reluctantly separated enough to breathe and to make room for the Holy Ghost. Their lips were no longer locked, but their eyes certainly stayed that way. Dimitri had such a thing for her dark eyes and the fire that always smoldered in their depths. He usually won their starring contests.
But Rose was out for blood after that little demonstration of his. "You are very lucky I don't have Yeva's charm on me right now, Cowboy. Somewhere between that argument and that kiss, your dick would've been toast."
Made you look.
Dimitri's Rose-less minutes always ticked by more slowly. They decided to kill some time by having a drink upstairs. He needed a distraction, and Mickey still wanted to explore The Aura so it was win-win.
The upstairs was every bit as beautiful as the ground floor, but it had a far more intimate lounge vibe. Sweaty dancers sticking to the couches and spilling drinks all over everywhere were less of a concern up there, so the furniture and accent pieces were covered in rich velvets and sheer silks rather than the more durable faux leather and heavy cotton blend brocades downstairs. Some people were laying on chaise lounges or sitting at small tables along the ornate balustrade, leaning over to watch the action on the dancefloor. There were hidden corners surrounded by beaded curtains with only colorful rugs and large cushions placed on the floor for furnishing, and stained glass lamps were everywhere. If the first level of The Aura Club was a Moroccan pavilion at midnight, then the second level was a lavish opium den at any time of day or night.
Mickey had just placed their drink order with one of the cocktail waitresses when Dimitri received a firm tap on his shoulder. He turned around slowly, hoping to see Rose standing behind him even though he was certain it wasn't her. His body could pick Rose's touch out of a lineup, even through multiple layers of clothing.
It was Stan Alto, the floor manager of The Aura and Events Coordinator for Fat Sal's. At the moment, he looked shifty and uncomfortable in addition to his usual state of appearing in way over his head. Stan had a certificate in Hotel Management, and he lorded it over the rest of the staff like it was a PHD or a license to kill. In the past, Adrian made it abundantly clear to everyone in his employ that he considered Rose to be his second in command in nearly every capacity when she was on the premises. Her word was to be treated like law with his complete approval, and this pissed Stan off to no end. On several occasions, he'd been insubordinate and downright disrespectful to her. She took it in her stride, but Dimitri loathed the guy on her behalf.
Dimitri looked the man up and down, trying to reign in the sneer he felt coming on. Stan wore a suit to work every single day, but he never appeared to be comfortable in them. He resembled a zoo animal that some insane person decided to dress up as a businessman - an oversized rodent squeezed into flat-front trousers and a sweat guard. He was always sucking on peppermint candies, too, which somehow put Dimitri off more than if he just had rank-smelling breath. The candies tinged his teeth and tongue red, making him appear almost vampiric.
"Mr. Belikov?" Stan began, his voice a snivel. "There is a man, err-hrmmm…a gentleman at one of our bottle service tables who wishes to invite you and your friend here - ?" He paused, indicating that he would like to be informed of Mickey's identity, though neither of them could figure out why he felt the information was so necessary.
Mickey spoke up first. "I'm Mikhail Tanner, Mr….?" He held his hand out.
Without moving, Stan inspected Mickey's hand from afar as though it was visibly coated in an undesirable film or an infectious substance before he consented to a loose handshake. "Alto. Stanly Alto."
Dimitri cleared his throat. "You were saying, there is a man at one of the reserved tables who..?" He rolled his wrist and flattened his palm trying to speed this shit along with prompting both verbal and physical.
"There is a man at one of the bottle service tables who claims to be an acquaintance of yours, an 'old friend', he said. He has requested somewhat forcefully that yourself and Mr. Tanner should join him and his… female companion at their table."
"Does this gentleman have a name?" Dimitri asked after holding for additional information that never came.
"He didn't give me his name, but I'm aware of who he is." Stan closed his eyes and adjusted his tie. "Sergio Parisi. Apparently, he used to be quite the regular here until he was banned from coming in for six months by the previous manager. They are at table five downstairs, would you like me to take you there, or -"
"That won't be necessary," Dimitri interrupted, "I know you're a terribly busy man. If you could send a word to him, I'll be down in a moment."
"Yes. Well, very good." Stan lingered for a moment, unsure if he should add any of his usual performative hospitality trade lingo. In the end, he opted not.
Dimitri waited until he and Mickey were alone again before releasing the breath he'd sucked in at Sergio Parisi's second-hand words. He took a seat at the vacant table to his left and barely registered the cocktail waitress reappearing with their order. Mickey accepted the drinks before sitting down himself. After giving the server a generous tip, he immediately shoved one of the vodka sodas into Dimitri's trembling hands. This was the second time tonight he'd seen his usually unshakable friend on the verge of going to pieces. "That Stan guy kinda reminds me of Harvey Korman's character in Blazing Saddles. Remember? His name was Headly Lamarr and he kept getting pissed when people called him Hedy Lamarr?" He laughed at his own joke; Dimitri remained silent. "Not in the mood for cheering up, huh?" He asked, knowing full well he should save his breath because Dimitri looked like he was solving a trig problem in his head - he might as well have been a hundred-thousand miles away. "Okay…that's cool, man..." He babbled, just needing something to do. The room was noisy all around them. It amplified the total lack of communication occurring at their table. "Yep…" His nervous habit of playing the drums on top of his knees kicked in. "It's all gravy, ba-by…" The awkward silence stretched and settled over their table like a fog.
After another couple of disastrous minutes, Mickey decided it was a good time for a cigarette. Cigarettes were probably invented to fill in the blanks of a struggling conversation. He placed two in his mouth to light and passed one of them over to his friend. "Okay. You've stewed enough. I know you're typically the strong silent type, and it drives all the broads crazy, but I'm no lady. Don't spare me any of the nasty details on this 'gentleman' who's apparently waiting for us downstairs. Smoke that, and then tell me who the hell Sergio Parisi is, and why his name sounds so fucking familiar?"
Dimitri Belikov started working at Giordano's Butcher Shop during his junior year of high school.
Paulie Giordano was hesitant to hire the young man at first. He'd inherited the place from his father who was also named Paulie Giordano, who had inherited the place from his father - the original Paulie Giordano. It was a family-owned and operated Italian shop that catered to shoppers from Italian families, and that's the way it had always been since Christopher Columbus. He didn't have any Russian customers. He didn't know any Russians. From what he'd heard, they were a cheap bunch of bastards who put jelly in their fucking tea and celebrated the birth of Christ on the wrong goddamn day.
The boy seemed smart, though. He was certainly built for physical labor which was in his favor because lifting whole sides of beef and stuffing hundreds of pounds of sausage every day was hard work. And aside from his ladies' hairdo, he was well-groomed and polite. In the end, the decision to hire the Russian kid wasn't Paulie's to make.
His fifteen-year-old daughter Mary Angela went to school with the boy, and when she heard he'd put in an application at her family's store, she threw the absolute mother of all tantrums demanding he be given the job immediately. There wasn't a girl breathing at East Orange High who didn't want her cherry popped by Dimitri Belikov. He was the topic of conversation at every slumber party and in every PE changing room since Orientation Day of his freshman year. So far, he didn't even know she was alive, but not for long. She NEEDED this to happen. This was fate pounding on her front door. Finally, that pork blood-soaked shithole she'd lived upstairs from her entire life was actually good for something. As she saw it, this would be compensation for all her unpaid hours working behind the register and stocking shelves, and the embarrassment she suffered going to school with her hair smelling of Pecorino.
"DADDY, I NEVER ASK YOU FOR ANYTHING! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO RUIN MY LIFE!? I WISH I WAS DEAD!"
"Marone! If it means so fuckin' much to you, Angie, I'll hire the little prick. But none of this wishing you was dead talk around your mother. She's a SENSITIVE WOMAN!"
Dimitri was a model employee throughout his four-year tenure at Giordano's. He was never late, he was always willing to work overtime, he never slacked off or cut corners, and he memorized the names of all the shop regulars and knew all their usual orders. Also, it was the damnedest thing, Paulie couldn't account for it, but his sales numbers appeared to shoot up a bit soon after hiring the boy, and they stayed up for as long as he was working there.
This mystery wasn't really all that difficult to solve, Paulie was just too much of a "guy" to figure it out: the entire adolescent female population of East Orange New Jersey was eating a lot more specialty cold cuts now that they were being sliced and wrapped up by a fucking teenage Adonis. And for that matter, so were their mothers
Peggy Giordano, Paulie's wife, adored Dimitri because he was always hungry, and she was always happiest when she was stuffing men full of her prize-winning baked ziti and braciole. There were never any leftovers in her refrigerator when the Belikov boy was around, and his praise of her culinary and decorating skills seemed genuine. It was just a shame he hadn't taken a shine to their Mary Angela. In her opinion, Russian or not, he would make any woman the perfect son-in-law.
Those big brown eyes on a tiny half-Italian baby!?
At about this same time, Sergio Parisi was a low-level associate of Bobby Lombardo's crew in the Newark-based Randazzo crime family. He was young and eager to prove his worth to Lombardo as a potential soldier, but so far he was stuck in a rut fulfilling the role of everybody's bitchboy. As a result, Parisi was in and out of Giordano's all the time placing and picking up countless orders on behalf of the men in Lombardo's crew. It was a bit of a fucking drive for him to make on a near-daily fucking basis, but these guys were all a bunch of paunchy bastards and Paulie's shop was the favorite of every fat Italian in the greater Newark area. He had the good capicola.
The first time Sergio saw Dimitri behind the counter at Giordano's, he recognized him right away as the young Heavyweight comer everybody was always on about at Loughran's Gym downtown. He was still just a kid, but he'd already laid a few beatdowns on some pretty well-known fighters. Muscle like that wasn't always easy to source, and in a green kid who didn't know what was what yet, and might be tempted by the promise of some extra money…? That shop probably paid him in fucking balsamic vinegar, and he was there almost every day on top of school and training.
Belikov. That was the kid's name, Dimitri Belikov.
He banked these observations for a later date. Right now Sergio Parisi was still just Lombardo's glorified delivery boy. But his day would come. He'd be a Captain of his own crew, and people would know his fucking name. That Russian kid? He could be useful. It was all in the approach.
"So, we just go down there and have a drink with him like it's all a big casual nothing, and then we get the hell outta Dodge before Rose is finished with Adrian's thing." Mickey recited for the tenth or fiftieth time. "We're golden, and she's none the wiser. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am." He snapped his fingers and smacked his palm with his fist to drive home the "wham" and the "bam". Right now, Dimitri was fit to be tied, and maintaining a cavalier attitude was the only way he could prevent his own guts from following suit. The pair of them were currently descending the staircase nearest the alcove tables, and taking their sweet time doing it. A sense of urgency was the crux of the plan they'd devised along the way, but right now they were moseying in the direction of their date with destiny.
Separately, their thoughts were about the same: How had this night of good clean fun turned so quickly into one of chores?
"Repeating a shitty plan doesn't improve it, Mickey."
"And shitting all over a shitty plan just gets you more covered in shit, Dimitri. If you have any better ideas, I'm all ears."
Dimitri groaned. "Sadly I don't. I think this is our only course of action."
"Well, then we need to commit. We're just a couple of assholes out for a night of partying with no fucks to give about anything else in the world. You and me, we sidle on up to table number five, slap our big swinging dicks right down on it, and say 'You rang, Mr. Pizzasghetti?'"
"Parisi."
Mickey rolled his eyes. "My mother is three-quarters Sicilian, Dimitri. I'm familiar with the surnames of her people. These are the jokes, folks!"
"Sorry, I'm just a little fucking tense right now, okay?!" Dimitri all but shouted. "Jokes, fine. Wham, bam, yeah. But I'm not pulling my dick out at my girlfriend's place of work again." He winced, hoping the last word of his outburst would go unnoticed but knowing for a fact it wouldn't.
Mickey stopped in his tracks."...Again?"
"Der'mo!"
"Hahaha! Der'mo or no, my fine friend, I will not be letting you off the hook for this one. Start talking because we're almost fucking done walking."
They had six steps to go before their feet hit the first floor, and they won Olympic Gold in walking as slowly as two non-aged or non-infirmed men could possibly walk. A few people, all men of course, came up behind them along the way and expressed displeasure with their pace. The ladies in the club were all taking the stairs nearly as slowly as they were due to the height of their heels. Mickey politely invited their most vocal critic to eat him.
"If you're rhyming everything on purpose, quit it. You sound like a Dr. Seuss who I want to punch in the face." Dimitri exhaled forcefully and pinched the bridge of his nose, accepting the fate of moderate humiliation in front of his best friend and any strangers nearby who might overhear their conversation. "There were extenuating circumstances."
"How extenuating would circumstances have to be for you to do something like that?"
"Rose made a special request for her birthday this year that she said I wasn't allowed to refuse." His eyes went wide as he non-verbally communicated to Mickey a more specific description of her single-item wish list.
"Rose made you an offer you couldn't refuse?"
Dimitri ignored his movie reference. If he kept ignoring them, maybe he'd stop making so many of them. The issue wasn't with the astuteness of his comparisons, the Blazing Saddles one was particularly good. It was the fact that they usually led to impressions as Mickey got drunker. He never wanted to hear that Jackie Gleason of his ever again. "She can be very persuasive." He made an earnest attempt to hide the wry smile that involuntarily came to his face as the memory of cumming in Rose's mouth temporarily eclipsed his every care in the world. He had no intention of becoming a full-fledged exhibitionist, but that was without a doubt one of the most erotic moments of his life.
"Stop smiling like that." Mickey shuddered in disgust. "You win, okay? I'm sorry I fuckin' asked."
"For the record," Dimitri added, "the beaded curtains in the lounge area do not provide adequate privacy for… gift exchange. Or so we were informed by Hans when he mentioned being aware of our activities to Rose a few days later."
"Hahaha! Serves you right, you twisted puppy. If it makes you feel any better, the guy doesn't strike me as much of a tattletale, so you're probably safe on that front. The two of you really are a couple of animals, you know that, right?"
"Oh, fuck you. I won't apologize for the fact that making love to my girlfriend is one of my favorite things to do in life. It's a very close second to eating my Mama's cooking."
"Can you call it 'making love' when she's blowing you behind beaded curtains in a bar? Mickey asked, shuddering again.
"You have a surprisingly puritanical view on the physical act of love for someone who is always giving me shit for being too uptight."
"Do you think Rose would be okay knowing you favor Olena's golubtsi over her… that?" Rose didn't have a pussy, as far as Mickey was concerned; her underwear was welded to her body.
"I was thinking in terms of 'first, one, and then the other' not either/or." Dimitri reasoned aloud. "And I'm fairly certain Rose would choose Mama's beef stroganoff over my cock any day of the week."
Mickey grimaced but nodded. It was probably true. Rose could really put it away when she wanted to. "Can't say I'd blame her." He decided it was time for a subject change before they arrived at their destination. What Rose chose to do with her mouth was her own business. "Speaking of Olena, I just came up with another plan since you weren't totally on board with the current one."
"I'm listening."
"How'bout… we skip drinks with Sergio and his female companion, and instead we behave like real men and sick our mommies on the guy!? I just need to find a payphone. I bet if I explained the situation to Ma, she'd be here in fifteen minutes. Hell, she might even be here faster than that because of how pissed off she'll be that I woke her up. This asshole sounds like he could use a dose of the medicine I've been given my whole life. I'll bet you ten-to-one she makes him cry."
Dimitri laughed. An honest-to-goodness Belikov laugh. The first one since Rose sneezed on his face. Making that guy laugh felt like a real accomplishment for Mickey, sometimes. He gloated internally until his friend recovered and spoke. "A sound wager. And not a bad plan either, or it would be accepting two pretty obvious flaws."
"Which are?"
"The only reason I'm worried about having a drink with Sergio Parisi, aside from my hating his fucking guts, is the fact that I never told Rose about my knowing him in the first place. She doesn't know anything about that part of my past, and this timing is screwed for the plans I had this evening. I might be able to explain away us having a drink with him, but I think Loretta and Olena standing in the middle of a discotheque in their dressing gowns shouting at a known mob Captain might ring a few alarm bells for her." His smile faded to dust.
Mickey hated to ask. "And the other?"
Dimitri pointed over to one of the alcoves about twenty feet away. "His table is right over there, and he can see us." They'd completely lost track of their surroundings as they bullshitted.
Too little, too late.
"Belikov! Long time no see, Comrade. I thought that it was yuh who I spied with my little Dego eye down here earlier, but I wasn't sure until I made an inquiry with the manager. It coulda been any old giant in cowboy boots. Take a load off. Your legs must be tired after all that standing around the two of yuh were doing over there by the staircase just now. I gotta say, my feelings were a little hurt that yuh didn't appear at all eager to join my little wall party." Sergio Parisi was seated at one of the alcove booths next to a petite woman with delicate features and a blonde pixie cut who resembled Mia Farrow or Jean Seberg. The bodice of her strapless black velvet gown was so low that her smallish chest was precariously close to spilling out onto the table in front of her. This appeared to be a common condition for many of the women at The Aura Club tonight. Not so common was the fact that she looked very, very bored.
The warm light cast from the stained glass lamp dangling over the table crackled and danced as the chain suspending it swayed with the bass of the music blaring all around them. Coupled with the dark red walls closely surrounding the table, the flaming light gave Dimitri the impression he'd been extended an invitation to a claustrophobic cocktail party somewhere in hell. Sergio Parisi lacked the charisma required to play the role of Satan, but he could easily be one of his minions of lower middle management status. He'd torture damned souls just south of Purgatory by trapping them and slowly annoying them for eons with his boorish manners and narcissistic personality. He looked the same as Dimitri remembered him - medium build and height, narrow through the shoulders and hips, with dark hair and dark eyes. He had surprisingly weathered skin for a man in his early thirties who had never done a day of work outside in his life. The dark blue suit he wore was probably as expensive as the one Mickey was wearing, and the collar of his black satin shirt was left wide open to showcase the two gold chains he always wore, one supporting a St. Christopher medal and the other a sturdy gold crucifix. Like a lot of men in his line of work, Sergio was a big fan of the aesthetics of Catholicism, but he wasn't one for really adhering to most of its teachings. They were totally fine with robbing someone at gunpoint or beating a man to death with a baseball bat while wearing a cross around their neck because it looked fucking cool. The one probably canceled out the other?
"Parisi." Dimitri merely nodded his head at all of that. He didn't want to be here, and if the guy already knew that about him, well that was just one less thing.
Sergio appeared unfazed by the frigid greeting. "Marone, where are my manners? Dimitri Belikov, this stunning creature to my left is Mia Rinaldi, my little dish of spumoni on the side. Mia, this is Dimitri, he's a former employee of mine. And this is his…date…?"
"He's Mickey." Dimitri pointed his thumb toward Mickey without looking at him or offering any further explanation. He turned to Sergio's female companion. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Rinaldi. That's a very lovely dress you have on this evening. Let me start out by saying I'm not in the habit of lying to beautiful women, unlike some, so I wouldn't want you to be under any misconceptions, here." He shifted his gaze from Mia back over to Parisi where it hardened considerably, and leaned over, placing his hand flat on the table in a manner that could be interpreted as friendly or threatening depending on who was doing the interpreting. "You were never any boss of mine, and I could have gone a lot longer without seeing you and been just fine with it. The word forever has a nice ring to it."
Sergio straightened up in his seat. The convivial expression remained tacked to his face, but the smile had drained from his eyes. He obviously wasn't expecting open hostility like this right out of the gate. He'd no doubt figured they would parley a little with their previous brand of passive aggression, each tossing out barbs and backhanded quips until it finally came to a head and he pulled rank on Belikov as a nearly made guy. The change in past protocol left him surprised and a little pissed off. He stared at Dimitri for another moment or two before swallowing it all down in the name of saving face.
Dimitri and Mickey finally acquiesced by taking the seats Parisi offered them. Round one already went to Dimitri, and it felt pretty dang good. Accepting the seats assured the possibility of another round. A quick one.
"The fuckin' balls on yuh, Belikov. You've always had a full set." Sergio squinted an eye and pointed a finger in Dimitri's direction, then threw his hands out in feigned surrender. "Well, when you're right you're right. I shouldn't have been so casual about my choice of words. Dimitri was never officially on my payroll with Lombardo's guys. He was more of what you'd call an independent contractor. Though I did always think of yuh as a… protégé of mine. After all, I was the one who recruited yuh. I took yuh under my wing and taught yuh everything I knew about the waste management industry. We did some pretty good fuckin' business together back in the day." Dimitri stayed quiet. He didn't need to waste too much energy making Parisi look like a phony douchebag. He was pretty good at doing it all on his own by mispronouncing the word protégé. "You're working construction now, huh, Belikov?"
"I'm an electrician."
"A man of the people, yuh. An honest day's wages for an honest day's work." He laughed, shaking his head. "I don't know how yuh do it."
"Honesty and work still not really your things?" Dimitri snapped.
"Honesty has its place in my life sometimes. Work I can do without. Luckily I do pretty fuckin' well without it."
"You always did land on your feet after you were done throwing people to the wolves."
"Oh, C'mon, Dimitri, don't tell me you're still fucking pissed off about all the shit that went down with the match in Patterson? I wasn't the one who made that call, and it was 1974 for fucks sake! That's water under the bridge, Comrade. Yuh must have moved on by now."
One comment and Dimitri's temper shot off like a bottle rocket. "They don't build bridges high enough for that water to flow under. Don't mention that night to me ever again, or I will rip your fucking head off with my bare hands, capiche?" Parisi just stepped on one of the rawest nerves he had, and he knew full well what he was doing when he did it. Fortunately, their heartwarming journey to the past was interrupted by the appearance of a cocktail waitress on roller skates. Sergio wouldn't have the opportunity for his mouth to finish writing a check his ass couldn't cash until after they ordered. Mickey hoped it would be enough time for Dimitri to simmer the fuck down. Dimitri glanced at their waitress, but he didn't recognize her. He assumed she was probably a recent hire brought in for the busier summer months. It was just as well, he was too pissed off at the moment to make a convincing attempt at small talk. Her name tag said Chelsea, and she was cute in a tomboyish sort of way.
Probably a Rose hire.
"I'm so sorry for the wait, Mr. Parisi. This evening is turning out to be a crazy busy one for all of us. Sheila is on her break, so I'm filling in for a minute or two. My name is Tamara. I was informed by the manager that you'd finished your bottle of champagne, and were wanting to order another?"
Mickey decided her appearance was enough of a diversion to allow him to whisper over to Dimitri without being overheard. Misdirection. He angled the back of his hand up against one side of his mouth, and spoke exclusively from the other side of it somewhat comically. "I thought we were going to play this one all casual-like? Yano, swingin' dicks and giving no fucks?" Dimitri mirrored his whispering technique with quite a bit less finesse due entirely to a lack of caring or trying. "Screw casual. I forgot how much I hate this guy's face. I'm having one drink, getting in one or two more insults, then we're out of here." The pair of them looked about as conspicuous as a couple of cartoon villains.
"Hey! Hey, Mickey, was it?"
Mickey's head shot up, and he jerked around to stare at his host with eyes that probably looked as uncomfortably wide as the felt in his skull. "Hrrrm!? Yeah. That's me, Mickey. Mickey is my first name. Mick-ey."
Sergio draped an arm over Mia's shoulder, and tried once again to play the role of big man. "We were just saying we didn't feel much like another bottle of French Champagne. Would yuh like to do the honors as my guest, and pick a poison for the table? Belikov, I'd ask yuh to do it, but Mia here can't drink vodka. It gives her the shits like yuh wouldn't believe."
As impossible as he would have thought it to be just moments ago, Mickey's eyes grew wider still. Mia didn't appear even slightly bothered by Parisi sharing this information about her with three total strangers. She raised an eyebrow and shrugged slowly as if to say, "meh, whatayahgonnado?" She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the small beaded clutch purse on the table, and inserted one into a long mother of pearl holder before lighting it with a matching lighter. It occurred to Mickey that under normal circumstances, he would find her use of a long cigarette holder to be elegant or sort of classy in an old Hollywood kind of way. But usually in the movies a cigarette holder would be used alongside a martini, and now he knew that if it happened to be a vodka martini in this scenario, she would have diarrhea. Even Greta Garbo couldn't poise her way outta that one.
"Anything his little heart desires, Tina. I promise yuh, girlie, I'm good for it." Sergio flashed the table with his wad just so they knew he was flush tonight. He spoke to the waitress like she was a piece of trash and he was Frank Sinatra. If there was one thing Dimitri and Mickey hated with equal passion, it was a man who talked down to every woman in the world except the one he was currently fucking. It was one of the lowest forms of misogyny because it was so weaselly in its implementation. They were both raised by strong women to have NO respect for men of weak character. This piece of shit wasn't being particularly nice to Mia over there, either, but the waitress's name was Tamara, and it was printed plain as fucking day on the tag pinned to her fucking shirt.
Dimitri clenched and unclenched his right fist while Mickey settled on his next move - fuck casual, indeed.
All Champagne was French, otherwise, it wasn't fucking Champagne!
"Tamara, I think we'll have a bottle of Nonino Picolit. It's been an age since I've had one of those, and I was surprised when I saw it earlier on the bottle list. I'm sure Sergio over here is going to be pleased as punch with my heart's desire, too." Mickey placed a lot of weight on the name Tamara before he flawlessly pronounced the name of a very expensive bottle of grappa from the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region of Italy, and he looked straight at Sergio while he did it.
"Alright. I'll be right back with… that thing you said, and four fresh glasses."
Tamara had barely turned around on her skates when Sergio spoke up. "You're a Pisan?"
"It's not stamped on my birth certificate or anything, but yeah." Mickey smirked.
"No shit. Yuh can't keep away from us fuckin' guys, huh Belikov? I shoulda known from that suit you're wearing. It's in the guido gray no fuckin' less. Where on the boot are your people from?"
Here it was. The pissing contest. He asked for it, and he got it. Mickey didn't like it when Italians from the neighborhood casually threw around slurs all the time to remind people of how Italian they were. To him they just felt like more ugly words on top of all the swearing they already did, and he avoided the behavior his whole life. Clearly, this guy loved to do it, so Mickey would fight fire with fire if he had to. Dimitri's chilly approach was yielding diminishing returns. "My Ma is one part Mick, three parts Sicilian. County Cork and Trapani, respectively. "
Sergio howled. "Yuh take your Sunday gravy with a side o'potatoes?"
"Something like that."
Tamara came skating back to the table with no bottle or glasses in hand. "I'm so sorry to tell you this, but apparently that bottle you requested is on the exclusive shelf that's reserved for Mr. Ivaskov's particular use. This is only my second night here, so I wasn't aware of this section on the menu. I feel so terrible that I -"
Mickey cut her off. Not out of rudeness, in the end, he would be helping her out. "Tamara, let me stop you there. You don't have to apologize to us for anything, we understand. BUT Dimitri here is Mr. Ivashkov's cousin. I'm sure his 'particular use' list can be extended to family. If Stan is around here anywhere, you can run it by him."
"Oh shit!" She slapped her hand over her mouth for a moment, worried the expletive might have offended them, and confused as to why she hadn't done a better job of filtering her thoughts. "I had NO idea. Dimitri, you said? Are you a Mr. Ivashkov then, too, or…?"
Dimitri was completely surprised by Mickey's blatant name-dropping, but he was still capable of rolling with the punches. He was a trained fighter, after all. "Belikov. My last name is Belikov. And don't worry yourself about me, or your employer caring too much about my being here. Just bring out the bottle, ring it up as you usually would, and put my name down on any paperwork required for inventory."
"I'll be back in two ticks. I'm sorry for all of the confusion. Like I said, tonight has been such a trip."
The table was silent after Tamara took off in search of Mickey's great white bottle. Mia didn't appear to be much of a talker, Dimitri returned to his state of hostile muteness, and Sergio was still reeling from Mickey's big reveal. "Belikov. You never mentioned to me that yuh had family connections of note before. I've known yuh for fuckin' years, and this is the first I'm hearing about yuh being a goddamn Ivashkov?"
"My father and Adrian's father are brothers. They have been since before I was born. If you were never aware of this fact it's probably because it isn't any of your fucking business."
"You need to remember who you're talking to right now. Everything that happens on this side of town is my fuckin' business you Russ-"
"I've got that bottle!" Tamara rolled up to the table, hands filled this time, completely unaware of her timing's knack for de-escalating international conflict. "Here we are. Nonino Picolit Grand Cru Friuli and four glasses. I have no clue what any of that means aside from the word 'glasses' but I'm sure you will enjoy it based on the impressed looks I received from all of the guys behind the bar." She set down four small stemmed tulip-shaped glasses and the bottle of clear brandy and then left them to open and pour it themselves as she was rudely instructed to do by Sergio who expressed his concern about the cork snapping if it was done incorrectly. He clearly hadn't been prepared for that Mickey kid to order a $350 bottle of rare Italian booze for the table on top of what he already spent to reserve the table in the first place. He'd misread things, made a few wrong calls, and now he was beginning to regret insisting Belikov come over to his table in the first place. He'd thought punching down at a loser from his past and rubbing his success in a few faces would help pump him up for the rest of his night. Now he just hoped they'd leave soon.
"I gotta take a piss." Sergio got up from the table after downing his second pour of grappa without savoring it. It was a smooth drink, he'd give it that. "I'll be back. Try not to miss me while I'm gone, all of yuhs." He shook out the front of his jacket before doing up the button. Then he walked away without another word to anyone, including his date.
Mickey noticed Sergio didn't walk away in the direction of the restrooms. He watched and waited until the guy was completely out of sight to speak. "Do we really have to wait around for him to come back? I say we just split." He reached for the bottle and poured another drink from himself and Dimitri. He gestured the bottle in the direction of Mia's glass to inquire if she wanted a refill. She tipped her head ever-so-slightly to give an affirmative answer.
"We don't know how long he's going to be gone," Dimitri answered. "If he catches us sneaking out, it'll be even worse than sitting through one more fucking drink and taking our leave properly."
Mia opened up her bag and pulled out a compact mirror, a small bag of white powder, and a small segment of red cocktail straw. She quickly racked up dainty white lines of powder on her mirror using a type of charge card Mickey couldn't identify. After downing two of the lines herself, and running her finger over a bit of the excess powder to rub on her gums, she slid the mirror and straw over to Dimitri without saying a word. He accepted the offering with a nod to match the ones she'd been giving out so far. Dimitri and Mickey each did two lines off her mirror. They were wiping the remnants from their noses when Mia Rinaldi finally spoke. "I know he's a total fuckstick." Her voice was lower and more sultry than Mickey had expected. She was so slight of frame, with such delicate bone structure, he expected a voice to match. Mia looked like a waif, but she sounded like Lauren Bacall. "I'm not his girlfriend. I work for an escort service."
"Wait, You just met that guy?" Mickey asked.
She shook her head softly. "I've been on a few dates with him in the past. He requests me specifically since I'm part of the club."
"Rinaldi," Dimitri recalled her surname perfectly.
"My grandfather was from Florence. I'm even descended from old-world nobility if you go by my mother's records. Fat lotta good that does someone." She loaded another cigarette into her holder, and lit it while the two men stared at her from across the table like she was a supernatural being that materialized before their very eyes. "… What? You're both looking at me funny. Do you not approve?"
It took Mickey a second to realize what she was talking about. "Approve of what? Oh, of your job!? No, no, nothing like that. Well, I guess I don't approve of your date tonight, but that's all on him. And possibly his parents."
Mia laughed, barely a rumble. "It's strictly a business transaction, I assure you."
"We just… earlier I was beginning to think maybe you didn't speak English or something. Dimitri over here isn't exactly the most loquacious guy in the world, and you were out-silencing him back there by a wide margin."
"I don't like to waste my time."
"Huh?" Mickey asked her, drink halfway to his lips.
"Sergio loves nothing more than to hear himself talk. Even if a person is agreeing with him or laughing at his jokes, he'd still rather just hear his own voice. I've got no love for the guy aside from the money he pays me to look pretty and fuck him, so I stay quiet."
"Makes sense." He drank.
"You two should have another pour of that stuff, and then take off." She waved her free hand their way. "He's not going to the bathroom. He's looking for somebody, and he's probably going to be doing it for a while. It's the whole reason he hired me tonight. Jealousy bait."
"Who is he looking for?"
"Some chick who works here that he hasn't seen in a while." She answered dismissively.
"The manager who told us to come down here said something about him getting kicked out?"
"He got eighty-sixed from this place a while back. Adrian Ivashkov's bodyguard, the guy with the eyepatch, kicked him out to the curb himself. He would have been barred for life if he was anybody else, but Bobby Lombardo's guys have something to do with the liquor distribution in the area. This is his first night back here since then."
"I'll bet he deserved it." Mickey took another sip of his drink and decided it couldn't hurt to inquire about something that was swimming around in his buzzed brain. "Say, Mia, can I ask you a question?"
"You mean can you ask me another question? Yeah. Go ahead, Mickey. You're a real cutie, by the way. I could have some fun with you."
Mickey cranked up the wattage on his smile, shooting her a finger cannon, "Right back 'atcha kid. So, does vodka… actually mess your stomach up like he said? I mean, if you're not really his girlfriend how would he know anything about your GI tract and what does it a harm?"
"Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!" Mia gave her whole body over to her laughter, this time. It was full and rich, and it reminded Mickey a little of Dimitri's laugh in a way because it felt like one that was really worth earning. A laugh like that was catnip for a class clown like him. She took a long drag of her cigarette once she had a hold of herself again. "My god, I needed that. There was nothing funny about my night so far, I promise you."
"I aim to please." He quipped.
"In all areas of life, I hope."
"Oh, but of course."
"To answer your question, no. My gut is a steel trap when it comes to liquor, Mickey. My mother used to pour black sambuca on her cornflakes when I was still in the womb. I was born drunk. I only told him that once so I wouldn't have to fuck him. He was being a particular kind of asshole one night, and I just wasn't in the mood to fake another orgasm. If you tell a guy you're on the rag…sometimes it will get you off the hook, but not always." She took another drag of her cigarette. "Some guys are into it. Some guys will just head to the bathroom and come back with a towel for you to fuck on. Some guys will use it as an open invitation to stick it in your ass. But even just the thought of a really loud case of the trots? I've never met a guy who isn't limp as a wet noodle after hearing that shit. And the day I meet a john who gets hard for it… he'll be my last."
Mickey was impressed by this little stroke of dirty genius. Mia was clearly a woman who lived in a tougher world than the one he inhabited, but she hadn't let it get the better of her. He grabbed the bottle from the center of the table, pouring them all another round. "I can imagine. Do you have other regulars? Ones you at least like a little?"
"Like?"
"Is that a stupid question to ask?" His face reddened a bit. "I don't meet a lot of prostitutes, so I'm not exactly sure about the parlor talk."
She considered his question. "I like earning money. I like supporting my son the way my parents never supported me. Most of the time I enjoy sex, even the really kinky stuff. Rich guys… are usually fucking assholes. If you just expect them to be horrible, then you're pleasantly surprised if they turn out to be okay."
"Why did he get kicked out of the club?" Dimitri had been so quiet this entire time the sound of his deep timbre startled Mickey and Mia.
"Excuse me?" She asked, not following his off-topic contribution.
"Parisi." Dimitri clarified. "What did he do to get himself kicked out of the club by Hans in the first place?"
Mia took a long sip of her drink before making the deliberate choice of answering, her eyes darting back and forth between the two men in front of her as she swallowed. She didn't mind badmouthing her least favorite client a little if it was off the record or talking about her own life, but she wasn't typically one to gossip. That shit could find a whore like her dead in a dumpster one morning if it was imprudently done, high class or not. But these guys seemed alright. Especially Mickey. She was seriously considering taking him home in a doggy bag - the little midnight snack. "He says he's 'in love' with some girl who works here. Unhealthily obsessed with is more like it."
"How do you mean?" Dimitri jumped on her words.
"Well, if you go by his side of things, she led him on by the short hairs and jerked him around for a while before giving him his walking papers." Mia scrunched her nose. "I'm not buying it, though. I know women, and I know men even fucking better. That girl didn't know he was alive until he stepped outta line with her, and then she probably wished he was dead right along with the rest of womankind. That Hans guy really let him have it, apparently, but I think she got a few good hits in too before he put on the finishing touches. Sergio was fucked up for almost the entire time he wasn't allowed to come back to the club, and he's still got a bit of a gammy leg if you look close enough."
Mickey spoke up first. Dimitri didn't seem capable of any further speech. "Do you know who the girl is?"
"No, I never met her. And I've only really heard him talk about her. She's got one of those flower names, though. Violet-Daisy-Lily…?"
Starring at her from across the table, the two men reached the same shitty conclusion at the same shitty time. "Rose? Was her name Rose?" Mickey demanded on his friend's behalf.
"...Yeah. That sounds right. Rose. I take it by the fucking apoplectic look on the Russian's face that you guys know this girl?" Mia asked, dead calm even considering.
Mickey felt the exact moment his spinal column began to pump ice water; Dimitri's body had petrified in the booth next to him. Somehow...he managed to give a coherent answer through all the pins and needles.
"You could say that."
NOTES
I pretty much gutted this chapter to get it to where it is now - which still isn't quite right.
The waitress's name has been changed to Tamara. She was a "Rose hire" of sorts in the original book series, and she's one here too.
SOUNDTRACK
Last Train to London - Electric Light Orchestra (Mickey and Dimitri enter the club)
I Love to Boogie - T. Rex (DJ picks)
I Love to Love - Tina Charles (DJ picks)