Marble Slab
On Friday, I had officially survived my first week as Vladimir’s employee. My attempt to mimic the artistry of a chef was as laughable as me trying to return a serve from Serena Williams. After our first meal together, Vladimir told me to forget the recipe books and make what I liked to eat.
We had moved from eating botched fancy meals in the formal dining room to having a variety of appetizers and cocktails around the bar in the kitchen. With the new, less intimidating plan, I was busy with prep and assembly, and I could relax enough to hold a conversation without having an anxiety attack.
When Boris and I got back to the house after practice, I went to my room, the guest room, showered, and got ready Friday Night Style—jeans, bling, hair, and makeup. During the week I donned my sporty girl attire, but I made an effort to raise my stats at social events. I just had to get through dinner, a few cocktails, some chitchat, and in a few hours I would be free from the Russians for an entire glorious weekend.
Once I was ready, Boris kept me company at the bar while he listened to a radio commentator jawing about college bowl games. UC was out of contention and finished for the season. He had his reading glasses on, a stack of papers fanned out around him, and was jotting down notes in a little black book.
“What are you, a bookie?” I joked.
He didn’t respond.
Crap. Was he a bookie? I tied on an apron I’d found in a drawer and then opened a can of cannellini beans and dumped them into a glass bowl. I added salt, a dash of pepper, diced tomatoes, and a big bunch of finely chopped parsley. I folded the ingredients together, squeezed a lemon over top, and scooped spoonfuls of the mix onto bite-size tortilla chips.
“You know, I’m capable of doing more than making dinner. I can do business things.”
“You call that dinner?”
I placed a couple of them on an appetizer plate and set it next to Boris. “They’re delicious.” I stuffed one in my mouth.
He glared at me. “You’re in good mood.”
“It’s officially the weekend. T.G.I.F.F.F.”
His expression didn’t change. “Is code for?” He tipped his hand.
“Thank God It’s Finally Fucking Friday?” I grinned and popped another bean thing in my mouth.
“You have big plans tonight?”
I guess he’d observed the obvious up-tick in my weekend style. “Oh, the usual.”
“Which is?”
“Hanging out with my friends.”
“Where?”
“Hockey game.”
He stared at me.
“What?”
“I am waiting to hear the rest of your plans.” He leaned forward. “You and your college friends don’t go home to bed after the game, right?”
Yikes. I busied myself at the chopping block and diced an eggplant for a dip. “Um, we just hang out and, you know, talk. What are your plans? Married? Got a girlfriend?”
“Who is driving you home?” Both his hands lay flat, palms down on the bar like an overweight panther ready to pounce.
Using the knife, I slid the eggplant into a clear bowl and put it in the microwave to soften before I pureed it. “I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. I can do whatever I want in my free time.”
“The big boy or the basketball player?”
I snorted at his shallow depiction of my friends. “Um, it’s none of your business, but if it makes you feel better, a girl is driving me home.”
“You’re lying.”
I tossed him a mischievous grin. “Why do you say that?”
“You always say ‘um’ before you tell a lie.”
“Really? Thanks for the tip.”
“And you suck in your bottom lip when men stare at your body, cross your arms when you’re nervous, and pull your hair forward when you’re paid a compliment.”
“Jeez, stalker.”
He kept staring at me like he was mentally downloading my quirks for his F.U.C.F.—Fucked-Up Carter File. The garage door opened. I went to the bar to prepare the drinks and to escape Boris’s unnerving assessment. All I had to do was carry two small glasses and a bottle of vodka to the kitchen counter and set out some pickles, caviar, and black rye bread.
Instead of downing pure alcohol like a proper Russian, I paced myself and sipped on less potent mixed drinks throughout our evenings together. There was no way I could keep pace with these bad boys.
As I poured a shot of vodka into my glass, a knowing smile crept up on Boris’s face. “Are you sure you should drink before you go out to meet boys?”
I topped my vodka off with a long stream of soda water, a lemon, and a lime wedge. “One drink isn’t going to kill me. It helps me relax.” I slurped down half my drink.
“One glass of wine helps you relax. One mixed drink makes you talkative, two drinks make you flirty, three drinks touchy-feely. I haven’t studied your behavior after three, but I have a good idea what kind of mood you’ll be in.” He arched an eyebrow. “Watch yourself around the boys.”
“You’re an ass.” I pushed past him and met the boss at the door. “Happy Friday, Mr. Ivanov.”
“Privet.” He kissed my cheeks and checked out my upgraded style.
“How was work?” I placed my hand on my stomach to settle the butterflies that did a flyby every time he came home and greeted me that way. I finished my first drink while the boss hung up his coat and changed into house shoes.
After he turned around, he looked at me, then to Boris. “Is he bothering you, angel?”
I caught a glimpse of my evil-eyed babysitter and shook my head. “No problems here.”
Boris spoke in Russian. Vladimir laughed at whatever he said. Do they know how rude that is? Boris poured a couple generous shots and said a toast. They clinked and downed.
The boss set his glass down and turned to me. “You have a date tonight?”
I must have seriously looked like a slacker during the week. “Just hanging out with friends.” I popped some pita bread in the oven and set the appetizer tray in front of him. “Try these.”
Playboy breezed into the kitchen from the back door unannounced. He had a heavy gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gash across his cheek, and a fresh ruddy abrasion that looked like someone had clocked him. I subconsciously touched my own cheek, where the red mark had settled into a vague bruise that I covered up with foundation.
He held his hands up to the boss as if apologizing for the interruption. Vladimir waved him in. As Playboy seemed to be explaining what had happened to his face, he plopped the bag on the counter, unzipped it, and revealed the contents: stacks and stacks of fat cash.
Look away, look away, look away, Sophia said.
I wasn’t supposed to see that. I turned a blind eye and busied myself in the kitchen. Vladimir patted him on the back and lifted his chin to get a look at his wound. My stomach turned. Playboy argued and raised his hands as if to say it was all good. The boss gestured for him to sit. Boris got some first aid supplies out of a drawer and set it out on the counter.
The boss saturated a kitchen towel with vodka, pressed it against Playboy’s cheek to sterilize the wound, and stitched it up right next to the food I had prepared. Acid built up in my throat. After the boss applied a bandage, Boris patted Playboy on the shoulder and poured three rounds of vodka. Vladimir made the toast that time. They clinked glasses, threw back their shots. Playboy wiped his mouth, snatched a piece of bread off the counter like a ballsy seagull, and strutted back outside. I dropped my gaze to the floor and pretended I wasn’t fazed, but my shaky hands ratted me out.
Vladimir stepped in to smooth it over. “As you can see, I run several different businesses. This one,” he tipped his head toward the gym bag, “is a small cash-only side business.”
I nodded and sipped my drink. Every single day that week, Playboy had delivered a stuffed gym bag to Boris. I’d seen plenty of gangster movies, and I knew whatever they had going on was no small side business; it was organized crime. It had to be. I mean, they didn’t even want to take the guy to the hospital to get sewn up. What else could it be? I reminded myself to breathe, pulled the bread out of the oven, and set it on a marble slab to cool.
Boris rested his big hand on my shoulder. “Need some spending money for the weekend?” He offered up a bankroll of hundred dollar bills, ready to shave off a few Benjamins.
“No thanks. I have some.”
He slapped a stack of bills in my hand. “It’s payday. I insist.”
I tried to give it back to him, but he wouldn’t let me. “It’s too much,” I said. “I hardly did anything. Besides if I show up to the game with a hundred dollar bill, my friends will think I’m a stripper or something.” I laughed at my stupid, alcohol-induced sense of humor.
“Actually, dear, with a hundred dollar bill your friends will think you are hooker. Strippers carry twenties.”
Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut…
Boris turned to Vladimir. “I have some business to attend to, boss.”
“Go. I will take care of Carter tonight. Do svidaniya.”
They threw back another round and ate some bread, then Boris put on his hat and coat, snagged the gym bag, and left the house. The boss and I were alone—together.