RE-EDITED 12/05/2022

"You and me we're goin' nowhere slowly

And we've gotta get away from the past

There's nothin' wrong with goin' nowhere, baby

But we should be goin' nowhere fast"

- Ellen Aim and the Attackers

Chapter 7

Mickey refused to be daunted by the task of locating Dimitri Belikov. Sure, Dimitri was fast and had a healthy head start, but he was definitely in no frame of mind to employ even the most basic tactics of stealth. The guy was huge, and nearly all of the members of the staff in the club and bowling alley knew who he was. Someone had to have seen which way he went.

He could do this. He had this shit on lockdown.

You're Mikhail Tanner, and the world can kiss your bare butt.

"Keep your pecker up. Keep your pecker up. Keep your pecker up."

He repeated his new mantra aloud as he ducked through the heavy curtains that separated the club from the now impossibly overcrowded lobby. His eyes darted about the room in search of clues.

The lobby's scant mood lighting was a serious handicap for his sleuthing. Some real harsh fluorescents would be in order right now, but they would be neither calming nor sexy for this group of frustrated people.

Over by the coat check, he saw a guy being yanked up off the floor by a couple of his buddies. The man didn't look to be falling down drunk, not yet anyway. He seemed startled and his friends were clearly pissed off. There was a small but noticeable parting in the crowd in that general area, and a lot of peanut gallery commentary was buzzing about.

Who was that guy?

That fuckin' giant just plowed right into them!

Why do they even have bouncers here if shit like that is gonna happen?

A lightbulb went off in Mickey's coke-addled brain, and he filled in the Dimitri shaped empty space in the tableau before him with the conjured image of a large red arrow pointing to the coat check booth, accompanied by the flashing words "HE WENT THATAWAY!"

Certain of his next move, he carved a path straight through the herd of disco cattle, and slid over the top of the counter into the coat check in a single fluid motion like a true man of action who played by his own friggin' rules.

Side doors with hinges and handles were for chumps.

He zigzagged around the same pretty girls who were working there before, and tossed out a bunch of words in their direction without paying much attention to whether or not any of it made sense.

"Hi, it's just me again. Sorry. Did my friend go this way? Tall Guy? Yes…No…Maybe? Okay, cool. Gotta go, bye. Lotta coats tonight!"

If they had answers to his questions, he didn't hear them.

He rammed open the heavy door to the service corridor with his shoulder, recalling Rose said it was prone to sticking, and walk-ran the length of the hallway. He nearly tripped over the napkin stack that earlier served as Rose's seat during their impromptu party. The marked Exit at the other end of the secret corridor was left ajar by the last person who went through it, and a thin rainbow hued column of light from the bowling alley poured through the crack between the door and its jamb.

More drunk breadcrumbs to follow.

He made sure to close the door behind him.

The atmosphere of Sal's was a full scale assault on Mickey's senses. In comparison to the club and service corridor he'd just vacated, this space was too goddamn loud and too motherfucking bright. He had to stop for a few precious seconds to recalibrate. He squinted and blocked his eyes with his forearm. He also fought hard against the strange sudden impulse to hiss like a cat.

"Gah! Why is everything horrible!?"

There were more bowling lanes in use now than earlier in the evening. It was nearing midnight, and roughly twelve of them were occupied by groups of people varying both in size and in levels of inebriation. Lane seven was host to a particularly sloppy lot. One of the women from their group was currently in the process of walking down the actual lane to kick over the pins with her rental shoe covered foot. She was wearing a floor length sequin gown, and she had it hitched up far higher than was necessary to attempt more kicks than should have been necessary to accomplish her goal. "Yuh think I'm too drunk to let me into your club? Well I'm NOT too drunk to bowl a strike YUH BITCHES!"

Somewhere nearby, Mickey heard the clicks and static noises of a walkie talkie sandwiching the repeated words, "Security. Lane 7."

That'll show 'em, lady.

The bar and restaurant area was hopping with folks all well on their way to trashed. It was a packed house fulla loudmouths, and looking around, Mickey was convinced that the patronage of Sal's consisted entirely of people whose only form of communication was shouting at the tops of their lungs - their loud as all get-out, bridge and tunnel crowd lungs.

And everybody, everybody, in the place was smoking.

…Even the children.

Where are their parents?

He conducted a quick but thorough perimeter check, and came up empty handed. Dimitri wasn't skulking around in any corners. He triple checked just to be sure, even though the guy wasn't exactly easy to miss.

"Okay, Mickey… time to use your brain. If you were an overprotective jealous boyfriend type who was probably in the midst of plotting a Charles Bronson-esq quest for vengeance on behalf of his girlfriend's allegedly besmirched honor, where would you be?"

Unsurprisingly, his brain offered no reply, let alone one with strong enough Death Wish overtones to be useful at present. Cocaine and booze weren't really the best food for strategic thought. The inside of his skull felt fuzzy, and all he could think to do was keep on staring around the room hoping for something to light a fire under this already stalled investigation.

Another kickstart to his morale wouldn't be unwelcome, either. His drug-inflated confidence was beginning to flag, and he knew it was probably a crap shoot whether he looked suspicious as hell or just totally bonkers to anyone observing him right now. Was that guy over there in the gray suit casing the joint for a major robbery and doing a pisspoor job of staying under the radar, or was he just senile and lost?

The latter felt more accurate.

Keep your pecker up.

Despair began weaseling its way into Mickey's guideless spirit as he scanned the room yet again for something to keep him going… anything.

And then suddenly - POW! WHAM! BAM!

His deteriorating brain function was no longer an issue because, in a stroke of luck he probably didn't deserve, he turned 'round once more and saw that Eddison Castile was still working behind the bar. The guy just appeared as if out of nowhere, like handsome man manna from the heavens. How had he already forgotten about Eddie?!

Eddie would know what to do.

Eddie was a solid dude.

Mickey made a beeline for the bar. He sidestepped four impeccably well-heeled beauties, perfect tens each of them, and slammed his body into the bar right in front of Eddie. Ordinarily, he would never cut in line in front of anyone, much less in front of a group of attractive young women, but needs must.

He groaned a bit, the impact of the marble counter against his gut was greater than expected.

Take that, spleen. I'm not even sure what you're for.

"Eddie! Please tell me you've seen Dimitri?"

Unfazed by Mickey's abrupt lead-in, Eddie politely asked the group of ladies to hold onto their drink orders for just a moment while he took care of something that simply couldn't wait. The smile he shot in their direction to smooth things out was enough to get even Mickey a little twitterpated. His fair-skinned face was suddenly nothing but piano key teeth, sparkling mischievous eyes, and dimples all over the place. Maybe Jill was the lucky one? Whichever one she was. He still wasn't sure which cage dancer was Jill and which was… Lisa?

With the comely patrons temporarily appeased, Eddie motioned for Mickey to follow him to the only empty corner of the bar a few feet away and wasted no time beating around the bush.

"Yeeeeeaaaah, I saw him." His eyes widened considerably. "What in the sweet merciful fuck is wrong with him right now? He wasn't exactly Mr. Life Of The Party earlier tonight, but just a second ago he looked to be on the verge of a murder spree. And he was kinda sweaty."

Rage sweats.

Mickey grimaced and conked his fist on the bar. As he saw it, the rage sweats were the only thing worse than the meat sweats on the sweat scale. There was something truly feral about that predominantly masculine stink. It often permeated the ring at Loughran's Boxing Gym. That place was always full of guys who had anger issues to punch out and old neighborhood scores to settle. As for his exposure to the meat sweats? Well, his mother was Irish-Italian, after all. Every family gathering he'd ever attended revolved entirely around the consumption of an alarming amount of food, and most of it was heavily meat-centric. He had some pretty meaty and sweaty uncles and cousins. According to Dimitri, who'd worked in a butcher shop for a number of years, when a male pig reached full maturity and was still uncastrated, the testosterone in its system caused a condition referred to by those in the agricultural world as 'boar taint'. The animal was no longer fit for human consumption as the meat developed a pungent, almost rancid smell. Mickey never planned on eating a human being, but he wouldn't be surprised if the males of his species experienced their own form of boar taint.

"Uhhh, Earth to Mickey?" Eddie waved his hand in Mickey's face.

"What? Oh, yeah…I was just…thinking about cannibalism." He replied absently.

"Huh?!"

"Nothing."

Dimitri was on the loose and very probably evolutionarily regressing, and his own ability to focus was dwindling fast. This was no good.

Be cool, Tanner. Cool as a cucumber.

"Do you know where he went?" Mickey's voice spasmed a tiny bit in pitch. He cleared his throat and tried to slow his mouth's release of the follow-up questions. "Did he say anything to you? Did he have a weapon?" He wasn't containing his growing panic well, and it was beginning to break the surface. "Was he acting alone!?"

That's not fucking cool! You sound like a coked-out Elliot Ness.

Eddie seemed to be coming to the realization that Mickey was only very slightly less unhinged than Dimitri had been. "He went out the automatic doors and turned right. I'm sorry, man, but that's all I saw. I couldn't follow him without anyone back here to cover for me. He did come over here before he left, though. All he said was, 'Vodka. Leave the bottle.' I gave him what was left of a bottle of Russian Standard, and fuck if he didn't just take it for the road while I was getting him a glass. Not much to go on, I know."

Mickey nodded to indicate he'd processed everything Eddie just said. A thank you was also meant to be rolled up in there somewhere, but he'd probably have to slide another one his way later on just to be certain. He handed Eddie a few large bills from his wallet, and told him to tell the hot chicks he'd just inconvenienced their next round on him. He was in too much of a hurry at the moment to chat them up properly, but this bit of gameplay could possibly give him an opening with them should their paths cross again later on. He wasn't above thinking that a really nice pair of tits might be the only thing to save his ship from sinking tonight.

Where the hell is Dimitri?

Eddie wished him luck, and he was out the automatic doors that led back to the parking lot. It felt as though he'd just walked through those doors, but heading in the opposite direction. The world was a much simpler place two hours ago.

"It can't be square one if everything is lamer than it was when you started. You're at square -1."

Keep your pecker up.

Hopefully Rose wouldn't send someone down looking for them before he had the opportunity to bag and tag the angry Russian. Right now, she had no idea what was going on with her boyfriend, and it was really best for everyone if she remained blissfully unawares. And speaking of the angry Russian, Mickey also hoped the guy hadn't downed the entire contents of the bottle he was packing.

"He better have saved me a drink, or we will most definitely be exchanging words. Expressive words." Mickey was prone to narrating life around him when experiencing heightened emotions. His internal monologue petered out when he was stressed, and his mouth picked up all the slack. The phenomenon was not dissimilar to verbally shitting one's pants or bed. "Where are you?"

No answer.

He reached the edge of the expansive parking lot and jerked his head around in every direction before deciding to go the way which was most well lit by street lamps.

"That way."

He rounded the corner and stopped immediately in his tracks. "Holy crap!"

The sidewalk in front of The Aura Club was crawling with humans. A whole city block and then some was five or six bodies deep with people standing shoulder to shoulder between the building itself and an endless length of chrome stanchions. It was like Mick Jagger or the Pope was inside those brick walls, and every young person in town decided to dress as sexy as they knew how for just a chance to wash the feet of either one of them. Rose's insistence that they use the back entrance through the bowling alley made perfect sense to him now. He couldn't even see the fucking front door, and there was no sign or marquee to give any indication to uninformed passers by what this place of business was. It could very easily be just one big long line for people who loved railing lines while standing in line.

He could hear people doing lines.

Dimitri wasn't here. This bananas scene was Belikov repellent. It wasn't exactly his kinda thing, either. Every few steps on this hero's journey he'd hit another obnoxious snag. The mission was beginning to turn his balls blue. "He better be dead. Dead or at least dying. Otherwise, this is a really big hassle, and I'm not sure it's worth the payoff." Mickey wasn't going to be able to make his way through this crowd. All of Adrian's genius planning to avoid adhering to fire codes by bribing city officials had worked like gangbusters, and there wasn't a spare inch of sidewalk for quite a ways down the road.

He'd have to go around them.

He stepped off the sidewalk into the street between two parallel parked cars and leaned over to check for oncoming traffic. The coast was clear, so he booked it right down the road like a jackrabbit. A few people standing in the enormous line shouted at him as he shot by.

WHOSE GIRL DID YUH FUCK, MY MAN?!

YUH GONNA FUCK UP THAT SUIT, BROTHER!

The headlights of a vehicle suddenly flared up behind him. He didn't have to turn to see there was a car, possibly a truck given the height of the beams on the pavement ahead, right on his ass about a half a block back. Whoever was driving didn't appear to be slowing down for him at all. They tapped their horn twice before really laying on it.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shiiiiiiit!"

He picked up the pace and zeroed in on the first patch of empty sidewalk he marked a couple dozen yards ahead to his right. The truck was getting closer to him. The driver tapped the horn again. The bastard clearly thought this was the funniest thing in the world. So did a lot of people in the line judging by the amount of cheering going on - for the truck, not for him. He nearly fell on his face when he altered his trajectory at the final possible moment to leap out of the street, around the bumper of the last parked car on the block, and onto the sidewalk. He heaved his body around just in time to see a beat-up white Ranger speed past him down the road. A man's arm thrust out the passenger side window and flipped him the bird. His arm stayed out until the truck hung a right turn, and disappeared into the shitty night.

That was all way too close for him to simply laugh it off. Mickey could feel the heat from the truck's engine on his left leg when he yanked it out the street behind the rest of his body. And it didn't help matters when more people from the line chimed in with color commentary on his near brush with death. He was a full block away from them now, so they must have really, really been projecting for him to hear their observations so very loud and clear.

YUH RUN LIKE A PUSSY!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, YUH DUMBSHIT!

Mickey doubled over, trying to catch his breath. His chest was scratchy and tight from adrenaline and the cigarettes he'd smoked at the club. A mixture of saliva and bile crept up the back of his throat, and he spat on the ground a couple times to try and prevent actual regurgitation from occurring. His eyes watered a bit as he retasted some of the dinner Olena Belikova served them earlier that evening.

He wouldn't be craving potato and herb dumplings for a while after this.

If he didn't find Dimitri soon, and figure out a way to sort him the fuck out fast, then this whole night would become just one great big honking monument to bullshit. On the bright side, if the bar for "bright" was really fucking low, his suit was still intact and the only wounds he'd sustained were to his pride - 'You run like a pussy'.

A sloshy, accented voice cut through the sound of Mickey's sputtering and retching. "For the record, you don't usually run like a pussy. It was probably just the dress shoes messing with your form. No traction."

Mickey stayed bent over. His muscles were cramping, and his head still spun. Plus, he knew whose voice it was he was hearing. "Well that's a relief. You know how vain I can be." He spat again. "If I really did run like a pussy, it would be better if the truck had hit me. And where the hell have you been!?" Raising his voice made his head pound.

Dimitri didn't answer right away.

He didn't answer after a lengthy pause, either, and it was his disaffected-sounding silence that pissed Mickey off enough to make him stand back up. It was a move he instantly regretted for dual reasons. The first being the wave of nausea brought on by standing. The blood rushed from his head too quickly, and he had to hold his breath, squeeze his eyes shut, and pinch the bridge of his nose to maintain his equilibrium.

The next drink he had would be a club soda. A club soda with no ice.

The second cause for regret was the mere sight of Dimitri Belikov. Once Mickey could pry his eyes back open, taking a gander at his best friend was a real pisser. He was leaning against a wall next to the giant metal safety gate of the loading dock at what was most likely the very far end of Adrian's reclaimed factory complex like a young Brando. His head was back, he was still holding the bottle of vodka in one hand, and in the other hand there was a smoke.

So cool. He was a cucumber.

In addition to nearly being vehicularly man slaughtered, Mickey had just spent the last god knows how many minutes, hours, or possibly fucking lifetimes running around that club and Sodom and Gomorrah's own bowling alley looking for him, and fearing the entire time that he might be off getting himself into a river of shit so deep he wouldn't be able to climb back out of it. He forced himself to address the potential moral quandary he'd be faced with when his friend requested his help to destroy evidence and bury a mobster's body. A dozen or more nightmare scenarios ran through his head while he searched hither and fucking yon for the giant Russian dick. But low and behold, here he was, casually resting in a reasonably well-lit and otherwise serenely deserted alley, looking like a dreamy 1950's heartthrob with a head full of luxurious hair he'd probably never lose! And to top it all off, he wasn't a bit sweaty. This was the limit. Mickey stiffly ambled over to where Dimitri leaned and tried to school his twitching features. He needed the element of surprise. "Is there anything left in that bottle?"

Dimitri lifted the bottle up to the light and swirled its contents. There were a couple of decent pours left.

"Hand it over," he growled, swiping up the bottle to take a swig. He wiped his mouth and moved to give the bottle back. The handover gesture was slightly awkward on Mickey's end because he was using his left hand to hold out the bottle by its base. Dimitri grabbed the bottle by the neck. The instant Mickey felt another hand supporting the bottle's weight, he clutched it harder, yanked it back toward his body, and used his right arm to sucker punch his best friend right in the mouth. It wasn't a perfect connection, but it was good enough to deliver the message - he was mad.

"Blyad! What the hell was that for?!"

To Dimitri's credit, he didn't drop the bottle. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and used his newly freed hand to examine his rapidly fattening lip. Mickey noticed there was something off about the way Dimitri moved. He wasn't leaning anymore, but his body still seemed to somehow remain diagonal. He flip-flopped and pivoted, but still seemed slanted for some reason.

He's drunk.

"Oh, good. You have the common decency to be fucking drunk right now. That's something, I suppose." Mickey began slowly. He chewed his words. "I just ran all the fuck way around that place looking for you because I thought you might be off, oh I don't know, committing first-degree murder somewhere!" Dimitri may have been slack and diagonal from drink just then, but Mickey was all straight lines and ninety-degree angles as he pointed back toward the bowling alley. "I assumed at the very least you'd be crouched in a corner suffering through an existential crisis or sitting down in a running shower fully dressed and crying because of a spiritual conundrum!" Mickey's righteous indignation was really getting its sea legs now. He just had every single drop of the piss taken out of him by that crowd of trashy dipshits back there, and he wanted a pound of Russian flesh to distract him from his embarrassment until he got drunk enough again to stop caring about anything at all. "But instead I find you here, all mellow-fucking-yellow and leaning handsomely around this fucking alleyway looking like goddamn motherfucking Christopher Reeve in a leather jacket! I oughta punch you again!"

Mickey ended his diatribe with a frustrated groan that was almost a roar.

And then there was silence.

Dimitri prodded his face and rinsed the fresh split in his lip with a bit of room-temperature vodka. It burned like a sonuvabitch, and he flinched. Mickey looked to be revving his engine for the second lap of vitriol. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dimitri cut him off. "How much longer are you planning on yelling at me?"

"- I can't answer a busted question like that. There are too many variables."

Silence. Mickey wasn't elaborating without a formal inquiry.

"...Which are?" Dimitri asked, rolling his eyes.

"For starters, if I punch you again, I'll probably calm down enough to stop yelling a lot sooner than if I don't." Mickey was definitely still agitated, but no longer visibly fuming. He'd also already stopped yelling, so the conversation was really about addressing how long his ass was going to be chapped about the runner Dimitri pulled.

"I'm choosing to let that cheap shot go because I deserved it for leaving the table as I did, and for being the reason all those assholes were laughing at you just now. But one is all I'm giving you. Any others?"

"Giving. That's a hell of a thing for you to say to me."

The flinty edge to Mickey's tone was more than enough to warn Dimitri that he needed to tread lightly. Feathers and clouds. "Without swinging back," he qualified.

"Was that your version of an apology?" Mickey asked. "If so, I guess we finally found the one thing you're unequivocally terrible at."

"Let's call it an admission of guilt, and a sincere request not to talk about it."

"Request denied. You still need to explain yourself, and I'm still pretty stinkin' cross with you, Belikov."

Rather than speak, Dimitri cracked his neck and set the bottle down for a second. Lifting his right forearm with the back of his hand facing out, he revealed a set of bloody shredded knuckles. Then he switched out which hand was nursing his lip to show Mickey the left was just as wrecked as the right.

Mickey whistled. "Those...are hamburger."

"You should see the brick wall I punched. It's right over there, and it's completely fine." Dimitri smiled ruefully.

"You're lucky they're not broken, you lunatic."

"Mr. Lucky. That's me." He took another pull of tepid vodka and backwash and handed the bottle to Mickey. "If they were broken, I'd have a good enough excuse to leave, and I wouldn't have to go back inside to deal with any more bullshit."

Mickey drained the bottle. "That might be true for tonight, but I think your logic is a little screwy. You're an electrician, Dimitri, you use your hands for work. Would your boss be fine with you taking an impromptu month off for a psychotic break?"

No response.

"I'm guessing not. I'm also guessing the mortgage on your house doesn't magically pay itself."

"Rub it in, why don't you." Dimitri gave him an "up yours" signal that showed off his fists tartare to perfection

"Hamburger needs salt." Mickey's head tilted just enough to drive home his joke before he returned the gesture with his own pristine meat hooks. "Here's the breaks, boyo - Rose is going to be looking for us soon, if she isn't already. And since I can tell this pity party you're organizing is fixin' to be a real hootenanny, you can carry on with your bitching on the way back to the club. We need to motor."

They started walking - Dimitri reluctantly and Mickey resolutely.

"I honestly wish I could skip this part and go back in time to be around for your violent outburst. The brick wall got off easy."

"If you had the power to go back in time, you wouldn't stop one of the people I hate most in the world from harming the person I love most in the world…you would just edit out your having to witness the parts of my reaction to learning of the incident you find tedious?"

"I didn't say I would use my powers wisely or judiciously, and I need to start looking out for number one more often." Mickey steered the conversation back in the direction of the practical rather than the melodramatic. Dimitri was still being weird regardless of how drunk he was. "All we know about what happened is that it was six months ago, and the Parisi cocksucker took a beating from that Hans guy on account of it. You won't have any more details or facts until you talk to Rose or to Hans. Plan your next move, and keep going until there's a real reason to stop. And if revenge is still on the table, then be less drunk when you exact it." They rounded the corner of the far end of Adrian's property. "I really hate lecturing people by the way. That's Loretta's bag, not mine."

"This wasn't a pep talk, Mickey?"

"Did it sound peppy to you, Dimitri?"

"Beats me. I wasn't listening." Dimitri said smugly.

"That's more like it! Be normal again."

"Oh you have got to be KIDDING ME…!"

They made it about half a block away from Dimitri's breakdown alley when Mickey stopped dead in his tracks to stare at a truck that was parallel parked like shit immediately in front of them on the other side of the street. The white truck was too far away from the curb, and facing the opposite direction from the other cars it was barely between. The world didn't exist wherein the driver of that truck was sober when they parked that truck.

"What?" Dimitri asked.

"This truck. This is the fucking truck that tried to run me over not…ten minutes ago…!" Mickey shouted, arms gesticulating wildly.

"Are you sure?"

"1972…'71 white Ford Ranger with a cracked passenger side view mirror and a shoddy patch job on the front fender. I'll probably be having dreams about this fucking truck. I can't believe those bastards chased me down the fucking road like that only to PARK RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER! They must have slammed on the brakes to flip the car around the second they stopped flipping me off! I - I mean this - this is really just the…" Mickey was too angry to speak. He would have to calm down considerably just to yell. He crossed the street to stand on the sidewalk right next to the truck without taking his eyes off it for a second.

He vibrated.

He stared.

Keep your pecker up.

A plan was beginning to formulate in his mind. He was currently operating on autopilot, but that didn't mean the plan wasn't a great one. He didn't need to think or talk to plan, no, he just had to feel, and he was feeling a whole heaping fuckton just then. The empty vodka bottle in his hand was a good start, but he needed more building materials for his plan.

"Dimitri!"

"Yeah?"

"Is there anything over on that side of the street that looks real hefty? Besides you, I mean." His eyes didn't leave the truck as he spoke. Eyes on the prize, Tanner.

Dimitri took stock of his immediate surroundings, "I don't know that I've ever been called 'hefty' before…but I'll check." He wandered off somewhere further into the darkness. Mickey could still make out the faint sounds of heavy footfall and scavenging, so he couldn't have gone far.

Mickey sidled up next to the truck and began a very serious batter-up pantomime sequence using the bottle of Russian Standard in place of a Louisville Slugger. He kicked at imaginary dirt, adjusted his stance, pointed the bottle out past "center field", and took a few practice swings. Suddenly, Dimitri was standing beside him again, smiling and holding a sizable chunk of asphalt in his right hand like a ripe melon. They were on the same page. That truck was getting a fucking name today, and they would be using the traditional method of christening.

He owed Rose a thank you for the inspiration.

"Now batting for the Yankees we have #7, Mickey Tanner. Tanner, with a batting average of 298, has been absolutely on fire tonight. He's young and he's hungry. There's no doubt in this announcer's mind that we are looking down the barrel of yet another home run." He took his stance, but stopped himself just short of swinging away.

"Dimitri, how's that cannon of yours feeling tonight? Yuh loose? Yuh think you can bring the heat?"

They were both on exactly the same page. They were on the same word on the same page.

Comeuppance.

Dimitri bent his knees and loosened his shoulders. "Well, I'm still a bit rusty after the Tommy John and all that recovery time, but luckily the physio did its job. I think I can close this one for you, Mickey Mantle."

"Excellent." Mickey grinned. "Then take the mound, my man." They both had a fantastically crappy night so far, and this little bit of make-believe followed by the promise of some truly deserved wanton destruction was really doing the trick for both of them. Catharsis came in many forms. Dimitri stood on the curb a couple of feet away from the truck's front bumper and held the hunk of old street up in the air above his head. Mickey gave him a nod.

Ready when you are.

"Here's the wind-up, and the pitch…" Dimitri slammed the asphalt down on the windshield as hard as he could. It cracked beautifully, and the asphalt disappeared into the truck through a jagged glass hole. Mickey hit the truck's only functioning side view mirror with the bottle at the exact moment Dimitri let go of the rock. The bottle and the mirror were instantly in splinters, and it was a miracle that Mickey's hands weren't sliced to ribbons. Maybe the universe knew he needed this?

"And it's a line drive to left field. The ball just passed right by #63, and Tanner's rounding first…he's at the second…he's - " Mickey's celebration was interrupted by the sudden popping off of the distinctly shrill EE-OO-EE-OO of a police siren. Red and blue lights turned onto the street directly behind Dimitri's back.

Somewhere in the night, Mickey heard a voice shout 'Five-O!'

A megaphone-amplified voice began issuing them instructions as the lights moved closer.

They froze.

Mickey's eyes found Dimitri's. They were a little bloodshot and blown wide with incredulity.

Mickey tried to speak without moving his lips. "Dimitri, what do we do?"

He wasn't much of a ventriloquist.

Dimitri swallowed. The lump in his throat wasn't going anywhere, though.

They were now in panic mode.

"Run!" They shouted at the same time. There was a split-second delay, and then they were both off like a shot and sprinting for dear life toward the bowling alley parking lot. The moment they crossed the street to where the truck was parked, they'd stepped out of Adrian Ivaskhov's hard-bought "no-fly zone" for cops and city officials. Neither of them knew if a police officer would pursue someone onto the premises if they had committed a crime off of it, and neither of them had any intention of finding out.

This could be bad.

They ran as fast as they could, and they didn't bother looking to see if they were still being followed.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" Mickey chanted, running as fast as he could in his stupid, gorgeous dress shoes.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Dimitri yelled, picking up the pace.

"When you jumped over that fire hydrant…I nearly died. I couldn't believe my eyes, man!" Mickey howled.

"I didn't see the damn thing until I was already almost on top of it." Dimitri choked. "I had to jump it, or it would've nutted me."

"Well, you had me fooled. It looked badass. I figured you were just showing off for the cops."

"I dunno. Maybe I was a little? Everything was sort of a blur. All I remember thinking was No-no-no-no-no-no-no! And then I thought it all over again in Russian."

They both erupted into red-faced, uncontrollable laughter. Evading the long arm of the law brought on a weird sensation of braggadocious teenage euphoria for both of them. Mickey and Dimitri were back in the top secret service hallway, and they were back to shoveling drugs into their faces. They'd managed to outrun the cops to the relative safety of the bowling alley, but figured it was one step further away from being hauled down to the station if they laid low for a while in a spot that only the notoriously tight-lipped staff knew existed. Dimitri was positioned in yet another rebellious wall lean. He clutched a small baggie in his left hand, and he sniffed a healthy dose of white powder off a key he held in his right hand - the broken skin on their backs no longer hurting.

He was feeling no pain.

"I probably wouldn't have taken so long getting ready to go out tonight if I knew I was going to spend the lion's share of my time either running as fast as I possibly can from vehicles driven by those who would do me harm or hanging out in a dark empty hallway. The cops and this huge stack of napkins under my ass don't give a shit how cool my pinky ring looks."

"You mean you didn't put on the Ritz just for me, Mickey? I feel cheap." Dimitri handed the gear back over to Mickey. This dance had been going on for about twenty minutes. Along the way, Mickey managed to extract a few more sentiments from Dimitri on the Rose and Sergio situation, but not many and nothing promising. The guy was still a pot of milk about to boil over - actually, now he was a pot of milk and cocaine.

They would have to leave soon, even if only to get a drink.

"You'll get over it. I'm told time is an excellent healer. And coke is certainly helpful with pain relief. Where did you get this stuff, by the way?"

"Eddie slipped it to me when he gave me the bottle of vodka." Dimitri nodded toward the baggie. "That was his third drug gratuity of the night."

"It's definitely pretty gratuitous by customer number three." Mickey went to snort another bump but stopped at a thought. "Hey! He never said anything about giving you drugs when I put the screws to him earlier. He said you looked sweaty and crazed, and you grabbed the vodka he gave you and ran off." He did the bump and handed everything back to Dimitri. "I never woulda pegged Eddie for a liar."

"Did you directly ask him if he gave me any drugs? Did he say 'no'?"

Mickey scanned his memory for more facts. "...No. I just asked him if he saw you, and if he knew where you went."

"Then he's not a liar," Dimitri stated plainly. "He's also not a hall monitor tattletale wiener."

"I hope you're not implying that I'm a hall monitor tattletale wiener," Mickey replied, affronted.

"There was no implication intended. Don't be so paranoid." Dimitri squinted and pointed a ravaged finger at Mickey's forehead.

"I'm not paranoid," he insisted. "You're just an asshole. I will say, that running from the cops without hesitation makes even more sense now. On top of a charge for vandalism, you were in possession of illicit drugs." They both laughed even though it wasn't exactly 'ha-ha' funny. Dimitri's life would have been pretty messed up if they busted him with drugs in his pocket. He got away by the skin of his teeth. "Is it sad that sitting here in the dark snorting drugs off your car keys and destroying someone's personal property are the highlights of my night so far? Doesn't really make me sound too great on paper."

Dimitri mulled over Mickey's question.

"I think it's all in the spin. Any turd can be polished up enough to pass muster upon first inspection. Like crappy landlords who think a coat of paint will take care of black mold in a bathroom. It does a good enough job of covering it until the lease is signed, and after that they don't care anymore. You, Mickey, are a…collector of new experiences." He held up the coke. "And you're not afraid to stand up against injustice even when faced with the possible threat of police opposition. Print the legend."

"Injustice?"

"They tried to run you over with their car for no reason. It's at the very least unfair."

"And how do I go about jazzing up the fact that I still live at home with my mother?" Mickey challenged.

Dimitri stroked an imaginary beard, and thought good and hard until he had it. "You're a complicated man, and no one understands you but your woman."

Mickey cracked up again. Dimitri on coke was really the tops. All the smartass shit he always knew was going on in that brain of his just leaked out of his mouth in the absence of his usual forced filter of stoicism. They'd been best friends for over a decade, but Mickey still ran into the guys' walls from time-to-time. They were unavoidable, really, since he could be a moody bastard, and he often reconfigured his boundaries without warning.

Neither of them was perfect.

"So I'm Shaft? That's pretty bitchin'. At least as long as no one scratches the surface and takes a sniff because then they'll find out my 'woman' is Ma."

"They might not even notice," Dimitri offered. "There are certainly other causes for confusion with the prospect of you being Shaft. Ones that are more obvious."

"...Well, I'd have to borrow your jacket for sure, that goes without saying."

Dimitri pushed himself away from the wall just before Mickey spoke, and then he fell right back against it laughing after he heard what he said. Then came the song. The entire song. Because Mickey was an idiot.

"Who's the cat that won't cop out when there's danger all about?

(Mickey… oops… we mean Shaft)

Right on…

They say this cat Shaft lives with his mother

(Shut your mouth)

But I'm talkin' 'bout Shaft

(Then we can dig it)"

Mickey went down to the lowest register of his voice for Isaac Hayes' lines, and he went up into his head voice for the ladies' part with his hand cupped to his mouth, his right shoulder bobbing back and forth every time he closed his eyes to the groove. He looked like an idiot. They were both in stitches for another couple of minutes. The thought of Mickey wearing Dimitri's long leather jacket and singing about himself with an imaginary entourage as he strutted up and down the aisles of a grocery store solving some crimes, or into a pizza place to grab a slice and solve some more crimes was far too silly to just let go of.

They were both idiots.

"The coast has to be clear by now. Let's get a drink, and hopefully Rose will be down soon."

Mickey sobered a bit with Dimitri's words. They felt a little like a wet blanket. "Fine. I'm kinda getting tired of both of us saying that, just so you know. What the hell is taking them so long? I've already had cocktails with a mobster and a prostitute, started moonlighting as a private investigator, cheated death, maimed a car, and resisted arrest. If they're still talking Limited Liabilities, then I'm leaving for good."

"You see, on paper, that reads as a pretty epic night." Dimitri said, laughing.

"Oh please. The Ballad of Mikhail Tanner is going to be a damn sight grander than that," he grinned. "I haven't even found my brass ring yet."

They each did another bump, steeling themselves for the next battle of the night's war. Mickey had planned on apologizing to the beautiful coat check girls for his previous intrusion on their workspace when he and Dimitri invaded it yet again to sneak back into the club. He couldn't remember the exact nature of the gibberish he shouted at them when he ran through there the last time, but he shouldn't have been shouting at them in the first place therefore it didn't really matter. He felt particularly bad about the fact that he still didn't know either of their names. He just kept thinking of them as "the beautiful coat check girls".

Sadly, this atonement was not to pass.

The moment they stepped into the coat check area, they were face to face with the imposing countenance of Hans Croft. The man had clearly been waiting for them in the vacated space for some time because the room no longer smelled so strongly of Revlon Charlie perfume - both of the girls who worked there were big fans of the scent - and because he appeared to be rather involved in a bit of crocheting. It was actually the steady click, click, click of Hans' crochet hooks that caused Dimitri to look up just in time to prevent himself from walking straight into Mickey, who'd stopped abruptly in his tracks by the complete and total subversion of every expectation he could possibly have about what he would find in that cramped room. The coats were all still accounted for, but everything else going on in there was as surreal as a melted clock.

"Miss Hathaway has requested your presence on the Studio Floor. Mr. Ivashkov has approved her request. I have been instructed to collect you and to escort you up there myself. Miss Hathaway also requested that I carry out this task using 'extreme prejudice. Mr. Ivashkov informed her that he didn't believe she knew what those instructions meant. Miss Hathaway took exception to his assessment. Mr. Ivashkov explained to her that the term 'extreme prejudice' implied that she was instructing me to assassinate both of you in the elevator en route to the Studio Floor. Miss Hathaway then requested her previous request be denied. Mr. Ivashkov approved her request to deny her previous request. I have also been instructed to explain all of this to you, in full, before carrying out my original assignment of escorting you to the Studio Floor. Are we all clear on the Prime Directive?"

Hans Croft did not raise his eye from his crochet hooks a single time as he spoke. The inflection of his voice did not waver one iota as he relayed the message from his employer. A message that he undoubtedly believed to be idiotic, as it was an objectively idiotic message. Mickey was legitimately impressed at his ability to utter such nonsense in the efficient, assertive monotone he'd already come to expect from the man, without breaking once. Behind Mickey, Dimitri shook with silent laughter. Every ounce of Hans' message was the product of his beloved's hijinks, particularly his use of the phrase Prime Directive. It only made him more eager to get back to her side.

But first, he had some questions that needed answering.

Hans finished the row he was working on, counted his stitches, and then neatly tucked his materials into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. Dimitri noted that the yarn he was using looked to be of very fine quality. His babushka was an avid crocheter, and even in this sparse light, he could recognize pure Merino when he saw it. He also observed that it disappeared completely under his uniform. There was no telltale lump to indicate he was concealing a large ball of red wool on his person. Did he have a skein holster?

He chose to let it go. It might come off as teasing if he asked about it, and he needed the guy onboard.

Hans held the door open for them to exit the coat check. There was a line forming in front of the counter of people who were wanting access to their coats and wraps. Many of them had been standing, staring, and grumbling for the entire time Hans was in there, and they were pissed at him for blatantly ignoring them while he tried his hand at a challenging new Bavarian stitch. He didn't even know they were alive.

The two beautiful girls came scurrying into view. They quickly squeezed by the three men to retake their positions at the counter, and to begin damage control. Mickey wasn't too dense to realize this wasn't an opportune time to try and apologize to them. It would do more harm than good. He trailed a few steps behind Dimitri and Hans as they crossed the lobby. They were talking about something, or Dimitri was talking and Hans was mostly disregarding. Rather than taking a right through the curtains into the main room, they turned left and went through an unmarked door into another secret hallway. This one was brightly lit by large commercial-grade hanging lamps with black metal shades, and the red brick walls were shellacked floor to ceiling in distressed layer upon distressed layer of white paint. It was draftier than their party hallway, and there was a faint musty industrial smell to the air. Ahead of him, Dimitri's pointed muttering became more heated, and Hans' replies grew less frequent. This vexed him. Dimitri just managed to pull himself back together, he couldn't afford to go to pieces again. Their discussion needed to wrap the heck up, and it was up to him to start the wrapping. He tried to read their body language in order to find an in for himself.

Death or glory, Tanner. Words to live by.

"Hey, Hans!" Dimitri turned to look at Mickey. Hans did not. "Uhhh, do you know the names of the two girls who work in the coat check? I feel like a real jerk, but I went through there a few times tonight and I never had the opportunity to ask." It wasn't a total lie.

"BarbaraCohen."

Five gruff syllables, condensed into one solid unit, and then Hans was silent. No additional commentary. Rodney Dangerfield he was not.

They came to a stop halfway down the hall and turned to face a large horizontally-opening steel door that looked older than Moses. Mickey was prepared to reword and reissue his coat check girl name inquiry, but Hans spoke up again before he had the chance. "I've also been told to inform you that the Dentist is in." He directed his words to the steel door.

Who in the world, or what in the world, was Hans Croft?

Mickey's eyes went wide and rolled dramatically along the bottom of their sockets to accompany a major swing of the neck and tilt of the head toward Dimitri on his right. He silently mouthed the words "BarbaraCohen?" and "Dentist?". Dimitri was tense, but he managed a soft grimace and a nod to inform Mickey that he already knew Hans was fucking weird, and he was already in possession of the puzzle pieces that Mickey lacked.

Hans pulled apart the metal doors to reveal the slatted wood inner gate of an extremely old freight elevator. He took care of raising and lowering that one for them as well, which was no mean feat as the wood gate seemed just as impossibly heavy as the metal one before it. Dimitri and Mickey stood shoulder to shoulder facing the back of the elevator where there was a second identical wooden gate. Hans stood behind them with his thumb jammed into the large black button that operated the rudimentary, and quite loud, lift mechanism.

Dimitri chose to let his mind wander to the first welcome distraction.

He was certain that Mickey wouldn't take notice of the metal placard on the gate in front of them with the name Otis printed in large script above the elevator's weight limit per load and the maximum number of persons permitted at one time. There was no reason he should, really. This elevator was an antique, and that brand name really meant something to those who were in the know. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Adrian knew this elevator was as close to a collectors item as something permanently installed in a building could be. His cousin had an uncanny eye for details like that. It was a gift.

As special as it was, the elevator was also painfully slow. Dimitri had spent enough time around Hans to grasp that he didn't give a shit about most things in the world, including social niceties, so he decided to just go ahead and talk to Mickey like they were alone in there. They pretty much were. "Both of the girls who work in the coat check are named Barbara Cohen. Adrian insists on knowing the names of all his staff, no matter their position, but for some reason he has a real difficult time with keeping women's names straight. It took Rose three months of searching and interviewing girls to find another one named Barbara Cohen after they liked and hired the first Barbara Cohen. There are apparently a surprising number of Barbara Cohen's in the tri-county area, but many of them are elderly."

"Hmmm." That's all Mickey had to say about that. Sure, it was strange, but it wasn't exceptionally strange for Adrian. It even…sorta made sense in a way? And now he knew both the coat check girls' names. Next time he saw them, he'd say, "Hey Barbara!" He'd always liked the name Barbara. He swiped at his nose a couple of times with the back of his hand before he asked another question to keep the conversation flowing. It was somehow both numb and itchy. "Who is 'the Dentist'?"

"Dr. Christian Ozera, D.D.S. He's Adrian's dentist." Dimitri answered Mickey's question in the same calm manner he'd use if he asked - 'So, why exactly do they call it a BLT?'

"I'm gonna need a little more than that, D-Train. I'm confused."

"Adrian gets pure medical-grade cocaine from his dentist, Dr. Ozera. It's still used a lot as a local anesthetic for dental procedures. Ozera has some kind of serious hookup with certain persons at a big-time German pharmaceutical company called Merck. They've been the largest manufacturers and distributors of the stuff since the early 1800's. And don't start calling me that."

"I didn't know this… was even a thing." Mickey's eyes widened.

"A lot of things can be things when people are rich. They grow bored more easily when all their basic needs are met without a struggle."

"Was he Adrian's dentist before he started selling him drugs? Or did Adrian just ask his drug dealer to start replacing his fillings and debride his gumline to save time in his appointment schedule?"

"I've been told they met in Atlantic City, so unless his practice is located there, the initial call was related to a different kind of business. And fair warning to you, the guy has a rather unpleasant disposition. He's also a mite scary."

"Scary? Scary like how scary?" Mickey was all questions and dead cat curiosity right now. Lucky for him, cocaine Dimitri was a lot more Johnny-on-the-spot with answers than regular Dimitri.

"Scary as in he could be the reason someone wakes up in a bathtub full of ice with one of their kidneys or a whole bunch of bone marrow missing. Maybe a testicle?" He shuddered. "I've seen him up here on a few occasions, and we've exchanged all of ten words in that time. He's made an impression from afar, though."

Mickey still felt lost. "How often do you come up to Adrian's studio?"

"Not every time I visit Rose, but most. I think it hurts his feelings if I don't stop by for at least a quick chat. He's like my mother and grandmother in that regard." Dimitri shook his head. "I told him I'd be around more often if he could cook."

"Seems like a waste of Hans' time to have him bring us up here himself if you've been here so many times before."

They both started at the sound of Hans' voice. "Miss Hathaway insisted I be the one to bring you up here. She said, 'Tanner couldn't find his ass with both hands, and I don't want Dimitri's hands anywhere near that stank booty of his'."

Mickey had to hand it to her, Rose was one truly crafty bitch. She found an evil genius way to make fun of Mickey, and to coerce a man like Hans Croft into uttering the words "stank booty". Chaos was her Prime Directive. "Please tell me Mr. Ivashkov didn't give you any further instructions regarding my ass, Hans?"

The elevator finally reached the top floor. Hans moved to take care of pushing everything that needed pushing and opening everything that required opening. "I was to inform you of Miss Hathaway's request, but beyond that, no."

"Well thank Christ for small favors," Mickey announced, turning from Hans to address Dimitri directly. "That girlfriend of yours can be a real pain in my 'stank booty' sometimes, you know that, right?"

"I know." He beamed. "But I'm far more interested in the condition of her fine-looking booty than I am in your stank one." His left brow involuntarily popped on the word "stank", and he mentally kicked the can of revenge business down the road a'ways.

This night would be the longest one in history.

Hans lifted the wood gate they'd been staring at the whole ride up, and the lady in question appeared before them. Rose's hands were on her hips, and there was a cocky smirk on her rouged lips. Behind her, Adrian's Studio loomed large, bright, and white.

"I thought I told the two of you to wait in the car."

Soundtrack

Gut Feeling / (Slap Your Mammy) - Devo (Mickey's Search)

Uncontrollable Urge - Devo (Dimitri Smashes the Windshield)

Theme From Shaft - Isaac Hayes (D-Train and Mickey Hall Party #2)

Pablo Picasso - The Modern Lovers (On the Way to Adrian's Studio)

NOTES

"Print the legend" is famously from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. I thought it fitting that Dimitri would use the line.

I read an article about Keith Richards getting through a lot of the 60's and 70's on the exact type of cocaine I have Christian selling Adrian here, but the initial idea came from a split second scene in Peggy Sue Got Married.

The opening quote is from Streets of Fire (1984). It's a woefully underseen movie musical directed by Walter Hill starring an 18-year-old Diane Lane, Willem Dafoe, Rick Moranis, and Bill Paxton with a strange 1930's/ 1950's/1980's aesthetic. Ellen Aim singing with her band The Attackers about Tom Cody is total Romitri business (he even has a long flowy coat). Do yourself the kindness of at least watching her "sing" Nowhere Fast or Tonight Is What It Means To Be Young.