Luca
Fuck me, I never sleep this late.
Fuck me, I could keep sleeping.
Course, it’s been a while since I fucked a beautiful woman in public. Maybe a year, at least.
When was it last?
I pause, running over my spank-bank in my head. So many of the names and faces are fuzzy — especially since I met Stephanie there’s really been no need to remember any of these other women.
Hmm… Was it Cabo?
I hardly remember that trip — because it was Cabo and Nico and I timed the damn thing to coincide with Spring Break — but I recall there may have been something with a young co-ed and the two of us fucking in a phone booth.
Oh, that’s right. I had her call up her soon-to-be ex while we did it.
That was a fun trip. I’ll have to take Stephanie there sometime.
I stretch. Fucking hell, I’m sore.
There’s just something about fucking in public that wears you out — that excitement that courses through your body while you’re doing it, wondering if you’re going to be caught, that leads to a huge adrenaline dump at the end.
That, and I think Stephanie may have literally drained my balls dry. I’ve never come that hard in my life.
“Bella, you up?” I mumble.
Her panties are still sitting right where we left them, wadded up on the coffee table.
She must be in the bathroom.
I strain my ears, listening, before getting up and heading to make some coffee. I stop along the way, picking up her panties for a moment while I recall last night.
Who knew a normal girl could be so much fun?
It’s when I’m halfway through my first cup when I realize she isn’t in the bathroom. Her purse is gone, so she definitely left. It must’ve been in a hurry for her to leave her panties behind. Unless she left them on purpose, in which case, she’s even sexier than I thought.
I’m definitely keeping them. If she wants them back, she’ll have to earn me.
But whatever, I’m not expending any more brainpower on it. I’ve got a sex hangover and a dead body — well, parts of a dead body — in my trunk to deal with and this nagging suspicion that there’s more going on than I thought.
When I was taking that Russian prick apart, there were some signs that gave me pause. His shitty ink, for one. They’re kind of tattoos you get in prison from some guy named Viktor or Alexei who happens to be missing a few fingers and more than a few teeth.
It’s got me thinking that I need to know if the Russian mob is trying to rip off the woman I love. After that, I can go about deciding who else and how many I’m going to kill. Because I sure as hell am not letting them fuck with her. She’s too good to be mixed up in all this.
I get dressed and head downstairs, mug of coffee still in hand, to move my car into the alley behind my apartment building. As soon as I’m sure I’m out of sight from most passersby, I open my plastic-sheet-lined trunk and start digging through the trashbags.
It’s hard work to do with one hand, but there’s no way in hell I’m doing this without coffee.
I spend a lot of time digging through my trunk and fucking around with body parts before I find what I’m looking for, but once I find it, I pull it out of my trunk and set it down on the pavement in the alley. I open the bag and set it up right so that there’s plenty of light shining into it.
There’s a severed right arm in there. And on the bicep is the tattoo I’m looking for.
If I was still in the business, or even still talking to those people from that part of my life, I’d probably send this pic to them with some bragging caption.
Bagged another one, sounds about right.
But, whatever, it’s the ugliest tattoo I’ve ever seen. I think it’s supposed to be a grim reaper, wearing his robes and scowling, but I can’t really tell because it’s so poorly drawn. Hell, it could be this Russian asshole’s mom for all I know. Maybe it is his mom. She’d certainly be ugly enough to give birth to a shitstain like whoever-the-hell is in my trunk.
I take a picture of the tattoo with my phone, then I spend the next five minutes sorting through the other bags and taking pictures of any other tattoos I think might be pertinent. It’s a veritable snuff film of limbs, shitty Russian phrases, skulls, a few black teardrops, and one flame-and-dragon tattoo that looks like it belongs on the cover of an 80’s hair-metal album.
After that, I load my trunk back up and get moving.
Today’s going to be a busy day.
* * * * *
“What the fuck is this?”
Jose doesn’t often mince words. And now is no exception.
“Just look at it. What can you tell me about that tattoo?”
He pushes my hand — and the phone it’s holding — away.
“It’s attached to a severed arm. Seriously, kid, what is this about? What kind of shit did you get into? Are you into snuff now?”
“Don’t ask. Just tell me if you know anything about it. You’ve been here for forty years, Jose. And I know more than a few gang members have trained in this gym.”
He shrugs and looks out the office window at the gym floor. “We’ve got a few out there right now. But what makes you think I now anything? I keep out of that shit, kid.”
I set my phone down on the desk in front of him.
“Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve got a deal with some crooked cops to keep immigration and law enforcement from poking around here. You’re not clean. And hey, I’m not judging.”
He clicks his tongue but otherwise doesn’t speak.
“Look, I’m not upset. Yeah, I was pissed you didn’t tell me — I’m your partner, after all. But I get it. You know what I was into, and I know sometimes you have to make certain arrangements that you might not be proud of. But this is important, Jose. This guy was trying to rip off Stephanie’s place the other night. You know I can’t have Russians fucking with the people I care about. What would you do if they started messing with your family?”
He picks up the phone. I knew playing the family angle would get to him.
Jose takes his time, and I can see the gears in his head are turning.
“We don’t get many Russians here. Shit, I don’t think we have many Russians at all here in California. Something about the sun and the warmth just doesn’t mix with those guys. We mostly get the Mexican gangs around here, like Nuestra Familia or the Norteños, and even though everyone who comes through those doors has to leave their grudges and all their other petty shit outside, they still don’t play nice with those pale Russian bastards.”
“But?”
I can tell he’s getting to something. Even though he’s taken decades worth of punches in his time as a boxer and a trainer, Jose’s still sharp.
“We had some dumb son of a bitch come in a couple years ago. He had the look, he was definitely connected from what a few of the guys told me, and he had tattoos like these. In fact, he had this exact one. It marks there family or some shit,” he says, pointing to one of the pictures. “He always wore that same god damn track suit that I swear every single one of those bastards wears, too. Why do they do that?”
I shrug. Even the few Russians I ran across back in New York whenever my work took me over to Brighton Beach had the same outfit. Even the kids in that neighborhood wore it. Babies, too.
It was weird as hell.
“There’s a guy, Vladimir Sokolov, he’s up there in the Karaulov syndicate. He has a bar called Volgograd down by the docks. It’s a shithole. Word is they even water down their beer.”
“Fucking hell. You serious?”
Any way you cut it, that’s dirty. And more than anything preps me for the fact that I’m going to be coming up against some inhuman scum.
I grab my keys and start for the door.
“Where are you going?” he calls out.
“To get a drink.”
“You’re not going to kill anybody, are you?”
I smirk at him over my shoulder. “Maybe. I’m going to see how watery their drinks are, first.”