glad to finally be meeting you.” Vladimir Shirokov approached from Leslie’s left, spreading his arms wide and suddenly shouting “WELCOME TO STATEN ISLAND” as if it were a magical kingdom of wonder, wizards, and unicorns.
Bollier mumbled through the gag but nothing intelligible came out.
“Oy. How rude of me. Leonid. Please you remove this thing so that the detective and I can have a pleasant conversation together.”
A husky Russian with a diamond pinky ring on each hand came over and freed the ball gag from detective Bollier’s mouth. She coughed and tried to lick the dirty rubber taste out.
“I would offer you water to clear your throat but I’m afraid is not so clean here.”
“Vodka will do.”
Shirokov’s face brightened at that. He seemed genuinely delighted by Bollier’s spunk.
“That it will. Of course. Leonid. Fetch the Smirnoff and pour us each a glass.”
While he was waiting for his lackey to retrieve the vodka Shirokov commanded another one to pull up a chair next to Bollier. When it was set up for him he hitched up his pants and sat down, spreading his legs wide and leaning one arm over the back of the chair. Leonid walked like he was muscle bound. He poured a glass and handed it to his boss, and then poured another and lifted it towards the detective’s mouth. Shirokov raised his glass in a toast.
“Cheers.”
Bollier tipped her head back and let Leonid pour the vodka onto her tongue. For a second she considered spitting it out in Shirokov’s face, but that would have accomplished nothing but a waste of perfectly good vodka, so she swallowed. It was not good but anything was better than the aftertaste of the rubber ball gag.
“So. We have as you can imagine some business to discuss…” From a fold within the confines of his sports jacket, Shirokov produced a long slender flaying knife. Bollier wondered absently how he had managed to carry it around without cutting his ribs. “Now. Tell me if you will, please, where I can find this man. This former army man named… Mister Jordan Ross.”
The Russian boss spoke the name like it was a grave curse, an incantation that could bring down rains of fire and fury from the heavens if uttered carelessly.
Bollier affixed Vladimir Shirokov with a cold gaze. For years she had been wishing for a chance to be up this close and personal with him, to look into the amber eyes of the man who killed her partner and see the truth; that he was nothing but a bully, a thug, a mindless infected mad dog frothing at the mouth with rabies. What she saw instead surprised her. The windows to Shirokov’s soul revealed a curious, perhaps even playful nature, someone who could have been an artist in another life. To Bollier’s mind this made him far more dangerous than a simple brute.
“I am waiting for you to answer my question. I am waiting very patiently.”
Shirokov waved the flaying knife in front of Bollier’s face and she flinched instinctively.
“I hope that you will tell me. You are a beautiful woman. Even despite your best efforts to hide it beneath this…” Shirokov indicated her formal business attire with a wave of disgust, “… this drab sexless garment you wear, and with no makeup on your face. You try very hard to hide how beautiful you are detective, but it shines right through… I would hate to see that beauty go to waste.”
Using his fingernails, not the knife, he plucked at the bandage on Bollier’s chin. Shirokov stripped it off, flung it aside and examined the scar she’d earned during the shootout on the bridge. He made a disappointed tisking sound.
“Such a shame. I will ask you one more time, detective. Where… is… Jordan Ross?”
Bollier watched as Shirokov’s steady butcher’s hands slowly stretched towards her face. The knife was gleaming an inch away from Bollier’s nose. She swallowed and made her answer.
“Leslie Bollier. Detective. New York Police Department. Badge number 4183.”
“ Shlula
Bollier mumbled through the gag but nothing intelligible came out.
“Oy. How rude of me. Leonid. Please you remove this thing so that the detective and I can have a pleasant conversation together.”
A husky Russian with a diamond pinky ring on each hand came over and freed the ball gag from detective Bollier’s mouth. She coughed and tried to lick the dirty rubber taste out.
“I would offer you water to clear your throat but I’m afraid is not so clean here.”
“Vodka will do.”
Shirokov’s face brightened at that. He seemed genuinely delighted by Bollier’s spunk.
“That it will. Of course. Leonid. Fetch the Smirnoff and pour us each a glass.”
While he was waiting for his lackey to retrieve the vodka Shirokov commanded another one to pull up a chair next to Bollier. When it was set up for him he hitched up his pants and sat down, spreading his legs wide and leaning one arm over the back of the chair. Leonid walked like he was muscle bound. He poured a glass and handed it to his boss, and then poured another and lifted it towards the detective’s mouth. Shirokov raised his glass in a toast.
“Cheers.”
Bollier tipped her head back and let Leonid pour the vodka onto her tongue. For a second she considered spitting it out in Shirokov’s face, but that would have accomplished nothing but a waste of perfectly good vodka, so she swallowed. It was not good but anything was better than the aftertaste of the rubber ball gag.
“So. We have as you can imagine some business to discuss…” From a fold within the confines of his sports jacket, Shirokov produced a long slender flaying knife. Bollier wondered absently how he had managed to carry it around without cutting his ribs. “Now. Tell me if you will, please, where I can find this man. This former army man named… Mister Jordan Ross.”
The Russian boss spoke the name like it was a grave curse, an incantation that could bring down rains of fire and fury from the heavens if uttered carelessly.
Bollier affixed Vladimir Shirokov with a cold gaze. For years she had been wishing for a chance to be up this close and personal with him, to look into the amber eyes of the man who killed her partner and see the truth; that he was nothing but a bully, a thug, a mindless infected mad dog frothing at the mouth with rabies. What she saw instead surprised her. The windows to Shirokov’s soul revealed a curious, perhaps even playful nature, someone who could have been an artist in another life. To Bollier’s mind this made him far more dangerous than a simple brute.
“I am waiting for you to answer my question. I am waiting very patiently.”
Shirokov waved the flaying knife in front of Bollier’s face and she flinched instinctively.
“I hope that you will tell me. You are a beautiful woman. Even despite your best efforts to hide it beneath this…” Shirokov indicated her formal business attire with a wave of disgust, “… this drab sexless garment you wear, and with no makeup on your face. You try very hard to hide how beautiful you are detective, but it shines right through… I would hate to see that beauty go to waste.”
Using his fingernails, not the knife, he plucked at the bandage on Bollier’s chin. Shirokov stripped it off, flung it aside and examined the scar she’d earned during the shootout on the bridge. He made a disappointed tisking sound.
“Such a shame. I will ask you one more time, detective. Where… is… Jordan Ross?”
Bollier watched as Shirokov’s steady butcher’s hands slowly stretched towards her face. The knife was gleaming an inch away from Bollier’s nose. She swallowed and made her answer.
“Leslie Bollier. Detective. New York Police Department. Badge number 4183.”
“ Shlula
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