The rotating barrel synchronized with the ringtone from the other side of the line.
A beep, a turn, and another beep.
"........."
A group of bikers drove by the far side of the street with their deafening engines roaring like it was the election year. The whirling drum stuck at the end of every turn, while the ringtone goes off between that period, two beeps a turn. The timer by the function wheel of the washer shines
four eight repeatedly as if a bomb's fuse was too rusted to do its job.
".........."
The noise of the exhaust pipes lowering Kirov's housing price fades slowly into the back of my head and integrates with faint TV statics from the grocery store on across the front of my apartment.
"............"
My left thumb pressed itself against temple.
Little past 8.......
Just when I'm about to give up and settle for the speculations that she's drunk, at work, dropped her phone in the tub again, at the bathroom somewhere with someone.
The sound of a peddle into the creak came, she then picked up.
"....Hey....I'll give you a minute to kick the shit out of me on the line for ghosting everyone in the past three months. Alright?"
Silence.
Then came a strange racket of.... the best description I can muster is an eight ball falling into a pool of sand..... and drums?
"Fly me to the moon......" I sighed deeply and it turned into laughter halfway.
"Frank Sinatra at 8. Really Vera?" Barefoot on the wooden floor, and the sound of jazz drums were drawn distant.
"Really. And how come I don't have the chance to kick you?" Window screen and door hinges, 'Fly me to the moon' became the background music with all the little noises around her.
"You'd do it already if you wanted to." Her cackle was toned with an ambiguous agenda by the phone line. Or maybe it's just Vera.
"It's the thought that counts." The smell of detergent is escaping the washer, I moved a couple of inches away to avoid the whiff of chemically integrated potpourri.
"You just wanted to be the first to hear me apologize eh?" A click came through the line, then a longer one and a hiss.
"No. Apologies don't work well with you. Besides...." I can almost see her face adorned by inexorable smoke as she puffs out, the pure white, king-size menthol between her fingertips burns while holding Viv's phone. "Viviane's enough for you to worry about." She purrs coyly.
Surely she can see me rolling my eyes as well.
"Speaking of which, is she nearby?"
"Out for the night actually."
"And you don't know where the hell is she either eh?" A stuffed exhale from her end.
"You know how it is. Though, I'm sure she'll find you herself. I told her you were back last night, her reactions were......drastic." I let out a dry laugh which may sounds like a cough on the other side.
"I'll be sure to remember that."
Again, I had it coming.
The sound of the city under the balcony of her apartment and the water splashes on my end seemed quieter as both of us stopped for a second.
"And how was....." Her tone carried a certain amount of uncertainty before it stopped.
I laughter rings in my head, the second time she's out of words in two days. The stars are aligned, aren't they?
Silence again, I hear someone's horning under her place or by Central Park. Not sure. But I can tell the jazz drums in the back are replaced by drawn-out choirs.
"No use leading with our chains...."
The old bastard in the back wastes no time and gets on the beat accompanied by the statics of the city from both ends. It kept on for a little, and it was the calmest I've ever been for a long while.
Ain't it the most beautiful thing in the world? To forever an inch before the finished line, never knowing what's in the box, always a minute before the alarm goes off. Psychological and mental slothfulness.
"I wish you bluebirds, in the spring...."
The sequence of the record quickens as the voice starts dragging on the words every time the saxophone appears. Done the intro, I shot down the mirror first.
"Ask."
"....How'd it gone?" She asks, her tone sounding familiar. I laugh out this time, not sure if it's to ease the tension or if I just feel like it.
"It's done, dragged on a trail of trouble and future regrets. But it's done."
A light hum with a hard drag making the burning of cigarette perceptible came through the line. Frank Sinatra kept on dancing by the tail of his song as I was starting to regret not bringing my pack.
"Any problems on the way? From the Qins or the Slavics?" Her voice sounded a touch delirious, like just waking up from a slumber. Curling the words at a broken tube.
"They are manageable."
"......Hey. I did tell you I'll owe you for this. And I don't like being in debt to someone....."
"You still don't owe me a damn thing."
It came out too instinctive, almost crudely but I wasn't paying attention. I was staring at the black and white inside the washer. Closing my eyes for a minute I pressed my left index and thumb hard on the lids till a bubbling gold and purple replaced the shade of opal from LED lights piercing through.
Today is a strange day.
"Five years ago we did the right thing. And we both knew what that meant. Whatever comes after will be my problems, it already was the moment I left Stynx last night."
Again, the rumble of washer and plastic boards bending retakes the silence. Even the record in the back seemed quieter, and I couldn't tell if it was still playing or if there was something else going on.
Would you look at that, three in a row.
Should hit the tracks on the way back. The flash of thought stepped on my toes and the unbearable tranquility went on for an unknown amount of time until a simple response rang through the line.
"Best of luck then." As light as feathers.
Too short, for this long we waited it should've been more deliberate. But at the moment it felt ample, so I drove a laughter out of my pipe and scoffed.
"As if anything else would do." A buzz in the back of my head and there's an absence of my heartbeat. "When this shit's over you'll be the first to know, and I'll trade blessings now for aged taquilla by then."
I hung up in fear of anything else happening and buried my eyes in palm for a second. Swallowing the urge to scream, I steadied the shit in my chest and on my shoulders, materialized them in my head, and swipe them under the rug before fast-dialing Ivan. Bastard's probably still at the icebreaker.
***
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The ringtone switches before the second beep stops. A barrage of shouting, glasses colliding, incoherent words, and blaring EDM toned till you couldn't tell the difference between lyrics and beats
A muffled low groan came through which sounds a bit more focused than the other composition in the background. The sharp sound of an opposed pitch as if a fruit can full of nickels in the air, presumably from a thrown and shattered glass. Another groan, this time less truculent, I could make out it was Ivan shouting Boris's name.
Then all the sources got swiped away to a single dot at the back of your head before the dot got blocked by a sound-proofed leather door.
"Would you be interested in constructing a glass dome over the second floor? Fucking hell, I would fund it if you do." Heavy steps on the carpet made silent impacts echoed through his office and through the phone line.
"Glass reflects the light," The creak of leather and the squeak of metal cylinder. "And let me tell you, ever since I started running this place you're the only one having a fucking opinion on the overall. And you'd never pay for entry fee or the drinks." Ivan snorts with his usual demeanor.
"I tipped Yulia every time I was there." A hollow laughter rings through.
"Ha! That's because she'd have your balls if you don't....... Oh yeah, and how're they?" I stopped the grin on my face for a second and recalled hard what he was referring to.
"How're they?"
"The twins came by earlier and shared some interesting revelations."
Fucking psychopaths.
"Just fine and functional. Thanks for asking." A leak materialized at the dot covered by the leather door, and the rumpus outside found its way back. A very quick exchange in Russian happened, I can only tell the last word was 'сэр'.
"Как всегда, делайте это на улице тихо." Another quick response came from the source of the noise, "I don't care if it's Saint Peter himself, no one gets in for the next ten minutes!" The tail of his hollering got locked back in the confined room, the leak was closed again.
"Problems?"
"Not mine, not yet. So spill it quick. What happened later last night?" The man is many things, but one of Ivan's best feats is that he understands the solemnity of things when he senses it as he changes the tone into a less outrageous one, could almost say it's collected.
"As expected, as planned."
"No incidents?"
Took an oath, had a drink, almost OD.
"Nothing concerning." A burly hum, but he stays silent on the topic.
"And the plus two?"
"One's the headstrong motherfucker we talked about. The other...might be an actual problem." The distinctive chip from the rim of the whiskey glass bumping on a slender neck bottle came through.
"More than the host of honor?" Ivan blurts jokingly along the din of stainless nails sliding down factory lines, or it could just be he's throwing rocks into the glass.
"Not really, that one's still the prime source of my insomnia." I stop for a second and think back on what I've gathered from last night, and find nothing. She's the blank sheet in an encrypted file.
"But I've never heard of anything about the other one." The other side of the line kept silent for a moment before Ivan stapled the conclusion on the wall.
"You want me to ask around?"
"I'm about to. But you know how my sources are sometimes limited, and you fellas might have much more, considering the circumstances."
"So you're hoping I'll ask around?"
"Blessed be the diligent, for it is a man's most precious possession." A hum hissed at my ear before it turned into a plain but subdued demand.
"Give me something to work with."
"People called her Xiao. Might be under thirty or slightly above, respected personnel judging from other employees' behavior. Switched from HR to under our host's fold in recent months, presumably in very close relationships as well." Ivan stayed silent till I started reminiscing if I left anything besides she tried to kill me, though that seemed inconsequential.
"Anything else?" Ivan finally asks after the washer drum rolls for the 100th time.
"Well. The tailor you suggested cost about a secondhand Harley Davidson." I thought back on those sugar cubes on a platter. It
"Hmph, I was expecting more honestly. Making you look decent sounds expensive enough." He said, in a dead serious tone.
"Fuck you too." A series of disturbing short mock was cut off by a garbage truck passing by the neighborhood and the front of the laundromat bringing along a sickening sweet. When it passed, the laughter was replaced by a rapid thumping from a muffled cause. A second of silence went by, as we both realized what it meant if Boris was disregarding what was told.
"Увидимся в обещанный день брат....." So I incite first as another series of thumps reproduce louder.
"держись подальше от неприятностей брат." Ivan responds solemnly with a lick of haste in it before the dull disconnected tone draws a straight and bleak line.
***
The pouring in the washer had stopped minutes ago, now the drum flips the wet mess inside around and around. Each time the noise of impact weakens as the dribbles on the fabrics are ditched and vaporized.
Guessing it's about done, though it's hard to tell with the still evasive timer of four eights. I stare at the spiral idly for a second before I realize I'm doing so and flip the phone back on.
Going through the missed calls is a drag, especially when I can't recall who's behind half the numbers. But there's one that caught my eyes in the other half, excluding the usuals
Pompei's number. Several weeks ago.
The accountant doesn't usually call. That sleazy bastard prepped all the evidence at place leaving records for any kind with even the thinnest trace is not his style, especially after he slipped last time and got the hounds at state and the lanes a taste of blood. Not to mention, he's got more than me as a client, and the rest would not want to be traced back if shit hits the fan on his end neither, vis versa. It
The golden rule of the game on his ground is to keep things clean and far away.
I pressed my thumb upon the throbbing vein behind my ears, took a deep breath, and cracked a grin on my face before dialing the number.
A person's voice can intel more than most think. 'Convincing yourself as the character, and the audience will be convinced'. For instance, talking with an actual happy expression on your face makes your tone expand horizontally, small differences but unmistakable.
If the figure doesn't emphasize his role, it would turn out sarcastic in nature, disproving, with hostility behind it, the tone of your voice will be a straightforward arrow or fall flat. And talking to this son of an African hooker and Yankee father without being there personally takes an extra mile.
The curse and blessing of a greedy coward which is the dominant species of this city, is illusion of grandeur and always looking for an angle to poke.
Not saying it's wrong but if you want to be an opportunist, don't be surprised when me or folks worse than me show up at your doorstep and please don't wet yourself when you're on both knees, staring down a muzzle. The stench lingered in my nostrils for an entire day.
***
"Hello! Chief, been a while since I heard from you haven't I? All good?" He picked up before the first ringtone stops. A cheerful, almost greasy tone carried by a nasal voice blurts through the line.
"Ain't it true. Got some personal affairs taking longer than expected...... but I hope everything is in order?" Replied with the same volume but a flatter tone, I pronounce every word like the last of a sentence.
"What gave you the idea it ain't boss?" I let out a laugh, probably the realist one today.
"You called me 20 days ago. Three in the afternoon right?" I toned down my voice a notch. A short silence and a short growl that he somehow put in cadence.
"Oh, don't fret about it. I was just wondering if you're interested in a small proposition....." He carries on in the same manner before I cut him short.
"From who?"
"Ahh, forget about it. Really, it was an incomplete idea anyway." I can almost picture the cocksucker with his headset on, shrugging it off with a curl of craw's feet as he pictures a very different path where this conversation is going.
"On your words, I suppose it wasn't you who came up with an incomplete business proposition for me. And it wasn't your fault, that you called me on my personal number, for a fuck knows what. Presuming I would be giving a shit?" I kept the smile on my face while dropping my voice until it became husky in the end. Like someone's laughing out of breath.
"Of course not! Boss." Son of a whore was on cue, took the stairs I built for him down like it was always where he was going.
"A former associates were drinking and talking about needing a freelancer with a wide range of services. Well, it kind of spiraled down the deep end after a few joy rides, I must have miscalled you then....." I lost the plot halfway through as I drifted off thinking how long is it going to take for the drying process to complete.
"Good to hear some senses pal. And I hoped it wouldn't happen again. Won't call me out of the blue unless I call first?" As soon as I utter the last word, the accountant continues like we're playing Solitaire.
"Absolutely!"
"That is immensely unwinding to hear Mr. Accountant." Just when I was about to end this comedy, a flash of thought came through my mind as I thought of another matter which, unfortunately, needed him to take care of.
"Oh right, before it slipped my mind. You saw those two transfers to my account yesterday right?" I stand up from the chair, step my feet on the bench, and lean forward to stretch my joints.
Even in quality, the wooden bench is identical to the public ones.
"Sure did, boss. Your account was gathering dust for the past hundred days and all of a sudden two fat paychecks came in. Gave me a real headache last night but I got it sorted out, ain't no way the hounding dogs gonna get a sniff of bullshit. " That settles the first problem.
"Could you take a look at the giving end of that wire?" For the first time, the other side of the phone line was quiet. After a short pause, he returned with the same energetic tone but spaces between words lengthened.
".....It jumped three different jurisdictions and changed currencies twice, the SWIFT code is basically a used condom at this point..... I'm sorry chief, I can't give you an answer right now. But I'd put my chip on Malta." A screech of wheels turning followed through the line at the end.
Fun fact about Pompei: He's the biggest bluffer I've ever known, the lies that drip down his hole are even more outrageous than mine. And if even he is being reserved of a task. Then consider it impossible.
"Very well. Scratch it, completely." A short nasal laughter came through before he swallowed it back. I let my tone gradually return to normal.
"Lee, I'm not the bank. I can't just....."
"I ain't talking about the bank, I'm talking about the records you kept. I know you have an entire archive, in papers, online, in envelopes, in your brain. And you're going to scratch those two transfers completely. Furthermore, if you see any future transfers from the same end, scratch that as well. Do you understand?" He choked on the words and only pronounced a stutter.
"....Yeah. But it's not going to be......" About three seconds later the accountant gave the shortest answer he had ever given.
"Now, let's presume you did. And in the near or maybe distant future if I ever found out, that someone else knew of those money. Well,
it sure as hell won't be on me, so......" I stop completely for a while and let him paint an imagination of the unspoken part.
"I will ask again. Do you understand?" I lay the last three words down like dropping a counterweight into a bottomless well.
"For Christ's sake. Yes!"
It's an old tactic of changing the mood and tension of the conversation deliberately, even the uniforms use it too. For negotiation and complying with an asset.
"I hope as well." With that, I end the call.
Not sure if it's the bright LED light above or something about the way those brats looked at me while passing by with their hands in big-ass pockets, or maybe I'm just tired. The tension crawls its way up as I shut my eyes close, squinting them. Suffocating my agitated mind.
Euforia has its tendencies. If you're having a bad day then consider it a bad week. If you're taking more risks than usual, people will notice before you do. And if it wants to fuck you royally, the foreplay's going to be all tender and loving with a hint of brute force behind the touch.
The last time I felt the ground tipping towards the sky before everything turned upside down was five years back. When the Santoro came out of thin air.