Vinnytsia was closer to Kiev than Mircea thought – three hours later, Boris was shaking him awake and asking where he should drop him off. Mircea rubbed his eyes and squinted at the familiar bleak sight of Vinnytsia – man, did he hate that place. Clearing his throat, he directed Boris to the laundry.
Boris unloaded his luggage from the backseat, and gave Mircea a curt nod before getting back in the car. Mircea found himself waving idiotically as he drove off. “Have fun getting to Odessa!” he called to the departing taillights.
The slow stupid cow was still working behind the counter. She greeted Mircea stiffly, saying they were expecting him yesterday. Mircea gave her a growl. “Shit happens,” he said in English, and it was amazing how universal swear words were. She ducked her head and handed over the ledger. Mircea fought back a groan as he looked over the figures. The money that was being laundered here was really not worth the effort. Mircea realised that selling his share wouldn’t bring in much. He could just up and leave, for all the profit the laundry would bring. He sighed and dropped the ledger back on the counter. “Call me a taxi,” he ordered wearily.
For the first time in a long time, Mircea wanted to go home. Not that he held much affection for Moldova, but simply because it was a place where no one was expecting anything from him. He didn’t have to meet and greet anyone back in Chisinau, but that was because he was a nobody there. Just an orphan fighting to make ends meet, like everyone else. It was Mircea’s foreign connections that were his fortune: his EU passport, his talent for languages and his wits. He stayed in Chisinau because that was his home, where he grew up and what he was familiar with.
When he was in Vinnytsia, he stayed in the apartment above the Nightclub the Syndicate ran. The club was noisy, even during the day, and the floor of the apartment vibrated from the bass line of the music below. Putting his suitcase down as he came in, he could see the bloodstains from where Piotr shot Ivan still hadn’t faded.
“What a dump,” he said aloud. He brought his carryon bag to the bedroom, and he pulled out the half-empty bottle of duty free vodka. Half-heartedly he opened it and took a swig, knowing full well that a depressant wouldn’t help the depression this place brought on. He looked in the small kitchenette to see if there was anything to eat. There was some mouldy bread and a half-empty cereal box, neither of which was very appetising.
“Guess it’s time for me to go and make nice,” he reckoned. He went back to the bedroom to get the duty free carton of cigarettes. He opened it and took on pack for himself, then headed down to the club with the rest.
Oleg the waiter was there, taking inventory behind the bar. He looked up with dull interest as Mircea came in. He raised an eyebrow at the pack of cigarettes Mircea offered him. “Piotr won’t be in until this evening,” he informed him curtly, pocketing the cigarettes.
Mircea hated being reminded that he wasn’t in charge. “How are things going?”
Oleg gestured to the storeroom. “You can check the stock if you like. The ledgers are in the office, but that’s for the owners.”
“I have a share in this place,” Mircea reminded him. Oleg didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t hide the smirk creeping across his face. So it was a 2% share…Mircea still had some right to know how the business was going. “So how is business these days? Still getting plenty of people through the doors?”
Oleg shrugged. “The same as usual.” It was a stupid question, as the takings from the doors didn’t matter – like almost all the businesses the Syndicate owned, the club was a place to launder money, and a place to hold girls. Things in Vinnytsia didn’t interest Mircea really, but until he got the signal to focus on Belarus and Cyprus, he had to potter around here.
“How’s your mouth?” Oleg asked. Mircea touched his jaw defensively.
“Good,” he lied. Oleg seemed intent on calling out his vulnerabilities. “I really tied one on in Cyprus,” he told Oleg, trying to change the subject. He looked at him questioningly. “Got so trashed I missed the connecting flight,” Mircea said by way of explanation. Again Oleg shrugged. “Get me a drink,” Mircea ordered in annoyance. Oleg grabbed a shot glass and poured a measure of vodka into it. Mircea looked at the glass and reconsidered. “Any coffee?” he asked Oleg.
“I’ll make some,” Oleg sighed, and went to the office, where they kept the coffee maker.
While he was gone, Mircea turned and looked around the club. He didn’t often see it with the lights fully on – it was a dismal dingy spot for people who just wanted to get drunk or hook up with a girl. Looking around, he wondered what it was like to be the manager of a place like this, like Liev was back in Chernivtsi. You got to scam some money off the top, but the day to day running of an ugly joint like this had to be depressing. Plus you often had to deal with situations – how many battered girls did Liev have to dispose of? Things were probably better in his hotel in Kiev, but not by much. For the first time, Mircea wondered what his long-term plan was. He wanted to get out of Eastern Europe and live in London, but he wasn’t sure how he would do that, and if dealing with Belarus and Northern Cyprus would get him closer.
The coffee was taking a while; he downed the vodka Oleg had poured him. He had taken the stronger painkillers he kept hidden in the toilet tank upstairs, so his face didn’t ache anymore. He wondered why Oleg had to watch over the coffee pot – surely someone had to stay behind the bar to make sure nothing went missing. I guess he trusts me, Mircea thought with a wry smile. But he was not the barman. Defiantly he leaned over and helped himself to more vodka, even though he really didn’t feel like getting drunk. Any missing drink will come out of Oleg’s pocket, he thought spitefully.
Oleg poked his head out of the back office. “Do you take cream and sugar?” he called.
“Both,” Mircea replied, even though he drank his coffee black. He just liked the idea of Oleg having to serve him.
Dutifully, Oleg came out after a moment with a coffee cup and saucer. The coffee was suitably light brown with the added ingredients, although Oleg should have asked him how much sugar to add. Mircea took the cup and sipped; it was revoltingly sweet and milky, like a kid’s candy. “That’s awful coffee,” Mircea declared, but Oleg was looking at his clipboard again.
“It’s the imported stuff,” he said defensively.
“You should taste the crap in Cyprus,” Mircea laughed, trying to show off.
“You can get Turkish coffee here, too,” Oleg reminded him, not at all impressed. He gestured to Mircea’s cup. “This is the Italian stuff. It’s supposed to be good.”
Mircea didn’t really want to have a discussion about coffee, of all things. It was his turn to shrug now, and he continued sipping at the sweet stuff in the cup. He toyed with the idea of going upstairs and taking a nap, as he didn’t really add anything standing around.
Just then, Piotr came in, with Dmitri, the bouncer, in tow. He made some sort of greeting signal to Oleg, then turned his sunglasses to Mircea. He pointed at him. “The office,” he directed, turning to go there. Mircea put down the coffee cup and grabbed the cigarettes, following Piotr.
“There’s coffee there,” Oleg called as they went in.
The bouncer took up his place by the door, while Piotr sat behind the desk. Mircea put the cigarettes on the blotter. “Duty free,” he said in a fawning voice.
Piotr glanced down. “Where’s the rest of them?”
“I’m sharing them round with the staff,” Mircea said lamely. Piotr swept the open carton off the desk with one quick hand movement.
“I don’t believe this,” he snorted. “You come in late, you miss your connecting flight, and you bring crap like this? You’re not bringing goodies for the office like some secretary. You bring me decent stuff, better stuff than I can get in Heathrow Duty Free!” He pounded his fist on the desk for emphasis, making Mircea jump slightly. “So what’s the latest?” Piotr asked in a dangerous low voice.
The latest? “Well, everything went well in Cyprus-“
“I’m not asking about Cyprus!” Piotr roared. “What is this crap of your boyfriend having you driven down from Kiev?”
Boyfriend? “Liev’s an old business acquaintance-“
“I don’t care how you know that big pansy, I want to know why you backed out of your flight and spent the night with him in Kiev!” Piotr stood and leaned over the desk at Mircea. “Did you two have a date or something?” he sneered.
“I was really hungover and I missed my flight –“Mircea began, but was interrupted by a stinging slap Piotr landed on his cheek.
“You keep telling everyone that story, but it’s not true. You thought you could keep me waiting while you and your fairy boyfriend lived it up in Kiev?”
Mircea had instinctively put a hand to his cheek, but didn’t want to show any sign that the slap had registered, so he dropped his hand. Telling everyone that story? He had only said it to Liev, Boris and Oleg. He recalled the signal Piotr had made to Oleg when he came in, and suddenly understood why Oleg had spent so long in the office. He was calling Piotr. Mircea felt cold chills as Piotr looked at him expectantly.
“It’s true! I had too much to drink-“
Piotr slapped Mircea again, and motioned to the bouncer to come and take Mircea’s arms.
“It’s true! I really was drunk, and Liev’s an old friend – I had no idea he’s-“ Mircea was pleading as Dmitri the bouncer gripped him tightly from behind. Piotr stopped slapping him like a woman, and hauled off and punched him hard in the gut.
“You think you’re really something now, don’t you?” Piotr said menacingly. He had come out from behind the desk and was punching Mircea’s torso. “You’re the big man in Minsk, eh?” Piotr spat on Mircea’s shoes. “Minsk is nothing and nowhere. The Turkish part of Cyprus? Get real!” Again Piotr spat, and followed up with a sharp jab to Mircea’s chest this time. “Bringing me a lousy opened carton of cigarettes, after having your boyfriend drive you down!”
“Boss, let me do it,” Dmitri said as Piotr rained blows down on Mircea. Piotr threw his hands up and drew back, letting the bouncer knee Mircea in the kidneys before he started working him over with his fists.
Piotr kept talking as Dmitri pummelled Mircea. “What are these lies you’re telling now about a Russian father?”
“I don’t know who my father was,” Mircea whined, gasping from the blows he was receiving. He tried to curl into a ball to protect himself. Piotr pulled Dmitiri back and bent over him.
“So you want to be one of the big boys now, with a Russian mobster daddy? You don’t have one! I do!” Piotr roared into Mircea’s ear.
“No you don’t!” Mircea shouted back, before he could stop himself. Dmitri stopped beating Mircea, and Piotr grabbed his collar, hoisting him up to eye level.
“What was that?” he asked in that low dangerous voice.
Mircea felt sick and terrified. He tried to look away, but Piotr forced him to look at him, at his silly dark glasses.
“You’re not fooling anyone with those sunglasses,” Mircea heard himself saying in a weak voice. Surprised, Piotr eased up his grip.
“What are you saying?” Mircea tried not to answer, but Piotr shook him roughly, and repeated the question.
“Your eyes!” Mircea cried. “Your dark eyes…not Russian blue…”
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Mircea wasn’t exactly sure what happened next, but it certainly was painful. He must have passed out at some point, because the next thing he was aware of was being flung over Dmitri’s shoulder and being carried away. “Just dump him in the alley,” he heard Piotr say. “Don’t waste any bullets on that Moldovan poof.”
A door creaked open, and the ground rushed up to catch him. “I wouldn’t come back here,” the bouncer’s voice advised him from above. “Just go home to Moldova, if you know what’s good for you.”
Mircea cried like a child for a bit, the pain in his body and head unbelievable. He wanted to just die, but figured Piotr wouldn’t let it end that easily. He’d have someone beat him into a pulp, him and his stupid big mouth. Snivelling, Mircea tried to get to his feet, but only managed to crawl. Millimetre by painful millimetre he dragged himself out of the alley. He collapsed by the street, into a mess of a lump. He tried to call for help, but cars sped by him as night was starting to fall. He lay on the pavement and wept, hoping someone, even the police, would come and take him away. After what seemed like hours, he heard a car stop. There was too much blood on his face and eyes for him to see properly anymore, so he just tried to blindly crawl to where he thought the car was.
Two hands reached down and held him up; one hand tried to wipe away the blood and grime. “It’s him,” Mircea heard a familiar voice say. “Let’s get to a hospital!”
Mircea was taken gently into a strong embrace, and then tenderly carried over to the car and put across the backseat. Someone sat down next to him, placing his head in their lap. “Let’s go, quickly,” that person said in their familiar voice.
“Michael, it’s too dangerous!” another voice said.
“Just drive!” the first voice ordered. Mircea felt the car start, and the inertia from its driving off pressed him into the person’s lap. A hand stroked his hair soothingly, shushing him.
Michael, Mircea realised, just before he slipped into unconsciousness.