Page 97 of Aftertaste

The whole thing was giving major Tarantino: high tension; high risk. Like any moment there might be blood. Kostya swallowed, the spit thick and unpleasant in his mouth.

“Gentlemen.” He tried to sound casual. “What, uh, what’s going on?”

Viktor stubbed his cigarette out on the counter.

“We have business tonight, in restaurant. Is good you here, Kostik. Good we can talk.”

Viktor toyed with his lighter, flipping the cap open and clicking it closed.

Flip. Click.

Cold beads of sweat wound down Kostya’s back. Something felt wrong. Very wrong. He squeezed his hands to stop the tremor in his fingertips.

“Talk?”

“About DUH. Very much riding on opening.”

Flip. Click.

“Yes. Definitely. Big day tomorrow.”

“Is big investment for me. And location—isveryimportant location stay open.”

Flip. Click.

“I understand. Of course. That’s what I want, too. For this to work.”

“Is more than want, Kostik. Itmustwork. We lose location, then we have big problems.”

Flip. Click.

“We’re ready. I mean, it’s not exactly Restaurant Row, but we’ll try our absolute best to make it a success.”

“Is notry,” Viktor said flatly. “You stay open. My business”—he nodded at the station beside him, acknowledging the mystery package for the first time—“depending on it.”

Kostya’s eyes snapped to the bag. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop tracing its odd lumps and shapes. He thought horribly of all the warningshis mother had lobbed at him—mobsters, drugs, dirty money, bad deals, bang bang.

“What’s in there?”

“Do not worry about this,” Viktor said smoothly, selecting a fresh cigarette. “Stas and Max, they will come by kitchen sometimes, to move”—he placed it at the corner of his mouth and lit up, spoke around it—“ingredientsin and out.”

“Ingredients.”

“Yes.” Viktor nodded. “And you will keep restaurant open so they can do this work.”

“Is—is that coke? Or heroin? Is it money?” Kostya swallowed around a walnut-sized lump in his throat. “Is that a bo—”

Viktor chuckled. “Oy, Kostik! Better you not know. Plausible deniability.”

“Fuck,” he said softly, his eyes still glued to the bag.

“For you, is very simple.” Viktor took a long drag of his cigarette. “You make smash tomorrow. So big that DUH stays open long, long time. Lots of press. Lots of ghosts. More is more.” He blew smoke from the side of his mouth. “If not, then we have problems.”

On cue, The Comrade’s hand shifted at his hip, revealing the handgun tucked into the waistband of his pants.

“I don’t want any problems,” Kostya said quickly.

“Good.” Viktor shut his lighter again.Flip. Click.As if that settled it. “What time you have?”

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