Page 13 of Spread Your Wings
“Become a stock broker, likeWall Street.” Mustafa grinned.
“Now? We’re in a recession.”
“I know. You need me to get you out of it.”
Sammy laughed. “Wow. You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“I enjoy working with money. My family is poor, but I’ve helped Vasily invest. He has two airplanes now, and his own hangar.”
“All from watchingWall Street?”
“From finding opportunities. My luck is running out, though.” Mustafa shook his head. “I can see the writing on the wall, here. Literally. The bath house wall was graffitied last night. ‘Leave, you Bosnian fucks. We start with the fags, then we kill the rest.’”
“You went to the bathhouse last night? I thought you couldn’t be seen there.”
“I only go when Vasily is there. Any other time, it’s not safe.” Mustafa leaned forward, head resting on his hands. “It’s becoming dangerous, regardless. While we were inside, someone outside was painting hate on the walls. How much longer before someone is waiting with a gun?”
Sammy didn’t have an answer, so he stood and grabbed his coat from the desktop. “Take me to the bathhouse.”
“Why?”
“I need a photo. Some video feed. We’ll take Harold and his camera.”
“It’s already gone,” Mustafa said. “We scrubbed the wall before first light.”
“But the police?—”
“They don’t care about us. Better to keep quiet.” Mustafa sighed. “Is it easier in America?”
“To be gay?”
Mustafa nodded.
“Not really.” Sammy pointed to the door. “Walk with me?”
“Where are we going?”
“Out.”
“But the bed is here,” Mustafa said, cocking his chin at an angle, making him almost too sexy to resist.
“That’s why we need to go.”
When they left the hotel, Sammy regretted the decision. The sunlight through the window didn’t tell the full story. They’d had fresh snow overnight. Between the car tracks, a gray sludge slicked the streets. Sammy tucked his hands into his pockets and kept a brisk pace to outrun the steam clouds issuing from his mouth.
“Where are we going?”
“To celebrate,” Sammy said. He’d found a steakhouse two blocks away when he was broke. Now that he’d gotten paid, and had a new lease on life, he wanted to try it. He pulled the long handle of the red door and held it open, ushering Mustafa inside. A woman in all-black with short gray hair led them to an open table and handed them menus.
“I don’t eat steak,” Mustafa said. He leaned over the table for two along the back wall, the closest to the swinging doors of thekitchen. When they opened, the clatter of dishes competed with the delicious smells for which could be the biggest distraction.
“They have fish,” Sammy said. He was thankful for the English and French beneath other languages he couldn’t read. “And salad.”
Mustafa nodded as he scanned the menu. “This is the first time I have ever been in here.” He looked anxiously at the waitress, who scowled at him as she deposited two glasses of ice water at their table. “How may I help?”
Sammy ordered the steak but wasn’t sure on the sides. He was used to getting a salad and potato, but he settled for Greek salad and a side of winter squash and broccoli.
Mustafa ordered in another language. Bosnian or Serbian, Sammy couldn’t tell.
