Page 26 of Agency
“Delicious, yes?” Smolensky asked, leaning across the table to grab the caviar.
“Absolutely,” I said just before a bite of steak-tartare-laden baguette. “Fantastic.”
His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning, and my taste buds were inundated with salt, acidity, and herbs. I couldn’t help but smile at him across the table and really enjoy the meal, despite who I was dining with.
Grigori Smolensky was a murderer, thief, pimp, extortionist, human trafficker, drug dealer, smuggler, and arms runner. Head of the Russian Mafia in the southern region of the United States, he was responsible for more death, corruption, and general awfulness than almost any man in the state of Louisiana. Which was saying a lot, too, when you considered what kind of a cesspool that place could be.
And now? Now, Grigori wanted to move into St. Louis, and, from there, into the Midwest. He was going to facilitate that move with semi-legitimate interests in river shipping, too, by expanding his reach up the Mississippi and to the St. Louis Port Authority.
To be clear, and fair, I really didn’t care what he did or didn’t do with his business, legal or otherwise. I didn’t live in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Shreveport, St. Louis, or Chicago. Hell, with as much as I traveled, I couldn’t really say I livedanywhere.And, no, he hadn’t hurt my family, my friends, or anyone I knew.
I wasn’t a vigilante. I wasn’t on a search or hunt for justice.
No, Grigori had simply taken over from Yuri Yolkin, the former leader of the Odessa Exchange, and begun to rebuild. Rapidly, too, from the dossier the Agency had given me. He’d swooped in with his damage control team and successfully maintained much of the assets seized by the FBI, along with bringing a fresh cash infusion to rebuild the shipping networks that had been damaged by Yolkin’s former accountant turning state’s witness. And he’d been successful.
But, his success had been enough for someone to put a contract on his head with my agency.
Maybe that contract had come from one of his rivals? Perhaps another criminal syndicate, because they were worried he was growing too fast? Or maybe, even, simply a jilted ex-wife or ex-lover?
He had plenty of those, according to his file.
Whatever had been the reason for someone to lay out the amount of cash that was necessary for this kind of operation, I didn’t know. And I really didn’t care. I’d been killing people cash for half a decade, and I’d forgotten when I stopped caring about the reasons why people wanted these bastards dead.
Because that’s what they always were: Absolute Bastards.
They didn’t really have gold-star qualities, at least not ones that were so bright and shining that they redeemed them for decades of criminal abuses. For instance, Smolensky’s organization was already suspected of eighteen different homicides in New Orleans even during the short time they’d replaced Yolkin’s operation. Prostitutes, rival drug dealers, small business owners who refused to sell out to him, a realtor who hadn’t been able to secure the house he wanted, the owner of the house he’d wanted.
So what if Grigori laid the compliments as thick as the steak tartare I’d smeared on my baguette?
He was an Absolute Bastard. If anything, I was doing the world a favor by getting rid of him. Who cared that someone would replace him? At the very least I’d set their operation back for a few months, which was about as much good as the FBI had done with their state’s witness.
Now, though, time had progressed to that part of the evening. Grigori’s eyes had a hungry glint, and I didn’t need to be an actual prostitute to know what that meant–any woman would have known.
Men. Sometimes they’re an open book.
“Well,” I began as, batting my lashes at him, I dabbed at the corner of my mouth with one of the fancy cloth napkins, “if you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I need to pop into the lady’s room.” I was already going to stand before the last words had left my mouth, and now grabbed my clutch as I went to step past him.
His hand was lightning quick, reminding me of a charmer’s snake I’d once seen while in Pakistan just after coming to work for the Agency. Soft palmed, or not, his hand was like a vise clamping down on my wrist, and his eyes were flinty and sharp as they looked up to me.
“Why?”
I swallowed hard, but kept my eyes steady. “Just to touch up my makeup, that’s all.”
“But, my dear Yvette, you’re lovely enough as you are.”
“But, my dear Grigori,” I said leaning down closer to him, “you paid for the full package.” My lips made their way almost to his, but I redirected them at the last moment. Nearly grazing his cheek, and staying so close he had to have been able to feel my breath on his skin. Following his jaw line to his ear, I whispered: “And don’t tell me you’ve ever believed enough is actually enough.”
He smiled, then, and his fingers released from my wrists.
“Didn’t think so,” I said as I straightened. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”
InThe Godfather, Michael Corleone had the benefit of a piece taped to the back of a toilet in the restaurant’s bathroom. That really would have made certain aspects of this so much simpler. Instead, all I had was my makeup and myself. But, fortunately, I’m a bit deadlier than Michael Corleone.
I’m more of a Luca Brasi, but not one that gets taken down in the first act of the film.
I checked my makeup in the bathroom mirror, touched up my powder, applied more lipstick. I went really, really heavy on the lipstick, till my crimson lips were popping from my pale face and halo of blonde hair like a blaring red-alert, perfectly complimenting my bright green eyes. I pressed my lips together, made sure everything was evenly applied, then checked my teeth to make sure none had scraped off.
I really liked the green eyes. Really liked them. Shame they’d be gone, soon. Real shame.
