French Pressed

Jam Master’s bling in the blazing sunlight. My lady, come ride with me on a silver streak of phosphorus bright.”

“Huh?” Esther said, clearly baffled. “Could you maybe translate that one?”

“My SUV’s parked right outside.” Boris explained with a shrug. “It’s the silver Subaru.”

Twenty

BB Gun parked his SUV on the street, and the three of us walked along Brighton Beach Avenue. Beneath the subway’s elevated tracks, a gust of wind off the nearby Atlantic whipped at our coats and hair. In a sweet gesture, BB draped his arm around Esther’s shoulders and pulled her close.

On the drive to Brooklyn, Boris had explained that we were coming to the “fast-beating heart of Little Odessa.” And within a few blocks of his parked Subaru, I understood what he meant. The neighborhood was pulsing with life; the streets were busy; the markets, stalls, and shops glowing and crowded, even on this cold, dark November night. Everyone was speaking Russian, and most of the signs on storefronts and food stands were printed in Cyrillic lettering.

We soon found the address for Nick on Brigitte’s note, a four-story yellow brick building with art deco trim and a small storefront at street level. Through a crack in the curtained picture window, I spied cloth-covered tables with neat place settings, and even though the sign painted on the glass was Russian, I definitely recognized one word: café.

“Let’s go in,” I suggested.

The interior was warm but not luxurious with cheap wood paneling and simply framed pictures of various Russian cities. Beside a muted television a large chalkboard was covered with Cyrillic writing—probably the menu. Swinging half doors blocked the kitchen, and another doorway was veiled by a black curtain. A large samovar occupied a wooden table between the two exits.

I counted a dozen tables. At the small register near the front door, a plump, florid-faced hostess in her forties greeted us in Russian. Needless to say, Boris did the talking, and we were led to a table in the corner.

A waitress soon appeared with a tray of water glasses, no ice, filled nearly to the brim. I didn’t care; my mouth was parched, my lips chapped from the persistent winter wind. I took a huge, long drink—and thought I’d just swallowed napalm.

“This isn’t water!” I gagged, my eyes filling with tears. “It’s vodka!”

Boris lifted his own glass. “Za Vas!” he cried, draining it. Esther took a tentative taste, then a big swallow.

“Oh, that’s good,” she said, waving air into her mouth.

Boris ordered hot borscht for everyone.

“Beet soup?” Esther’s nose wrinkled beneath her red cat glasses. “I hate beets, and I was promised caviar.”

Boris pulled her close. “And caviar you shall have, my tsarina, but try a little borscht first.”

My eyes cleared, and my mind started moving.

Beets…beets are important. Why?

I suddenly flashed on the cut-up beets that had been scattered on the prep table around Tommy Keitel’s corpse. And there’d been stock bubbling on the stove, too.

Tommy was preparing borscht, I realized, probably from a recipe the mysterious Nick had given him!

Could Nick be the chef here?

The scorching fire in my throat had turned into a pleasing warmth in my stomach. I took another taste of the superb Russian vodka and looked around.

The place was pretty dead, especially for a Saturday night. Only two other tables were occupied. One by a trio of young Russian men in black leather coats, with hair that stood straight up, giving their heads a distinctly angular appearance. Four very attractive young women sat at the other table, nursing cups of steaming tea. One polished her long fingernails; another leafed through a dog-eared copy of Vogue.

“They look like hookers,” Esther whispered.

“They work here,” Boris said. “This is banya, probably also Red Mafiya.”

Esther stiffened. Boris touched her knee. “It’s all right. We’re no threat. We’re…how you say… civilians.”

A young man at the other table rose. Cup in hand, he crossed to the samovar. Boris watched him and suddenly called out.

“Leonid, Leonid, the music man, he books my band as fast as he can. The man with the power and the hour was midnight, we rapped so neat we gave Eminem a fright.”

The man turned toward us, and his eyes lit with recognition.

“BB Gun!” he cried, rushing to our table. Boris rose, and the two men embraced like long-lost friends.

“Hey, guys,” Leonid called to his comrades. “This is BB Gun. He played at Klub Bespredel, the big Halloween show. Really brought down the house. Good haul for the boss!”

“Ah, Leonid, but we both know why you remember me,” Boris said. “That was the night I introduced you to my ex-girlfriend, Anya.”

The man touched his heart. “What a night! And thanks for introducing me to Svetlana, too.”

“Da…da.” Boris nodded.

Leonid smacked his lips, thumped his barrel chest. “They’re a pair of hot pistols, I’ll tell you. Make me feel like byki—strong like a bull.”

“I’m the guy who’d know,” Boris boasted. “That’s why they call me BB Gun!” Boris put his arm around Leonid’s broad shoulder. “Homey, listen up now! I wrote this song about those two phat booties.”

Boris launched into another rap, this time in Russian. The names “Svetlana” and “Anya” came up a number of times, and the references were obviously lewd. The men at the table guffawed. The women pretended to be shocked, but in the end they laughed, too.

When Boris finished, everyone applauded except Esther. Stewing, she glowered at her new boyfriend.

Leonid nudged Boris with his elbow. “So what is the great BB Gun doing in our banya?”

“It’s my new friend,” Boris said, tilting his head in my direction. “She came to this place because of a mutual friend of Nick’s.”

“You know Mr. Pedechenko?” Leonid asked me, obviously surprised.

“If you mean Nick, then the answer is yes. I met him once.”

“Ms. Cosi wants to ask Nick a few questions,” Boris explained.

The man snapped his fingers. “Olga,” he bellowed.

The woman who’d been painting her nails rose. She wore a tight blouse, and figure-hugging black Levi’s. Waving her spread fingers to dry the nail polish, Olga approached us. Her hair was long and black as squid ink, falling like a curtain around her oval face. She was supermodel thin and had a good eight inches on me, at least half of which could be attributed to her four-inch heels.

“Take Ms. Cosi to see Nick,” Leonid commanded.

Olga nodded. “Follow,” she said, spinning on her giant heels.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Esther. She barely heard me. She was still glaring at Boris. As I followed Olga through the black-curtained door, Esther clutched her boyfriend’s arm.

“Who’s Anya?” she demanded. “And who the hell is Svetlana?”

Behind the curtain, cubicles lined one wall of the narrow corridor, a bank of steel lockers the other. Each cubicle was veiled by black curtains that matched the one blocking the door.

“In there,” Olga said, directing me to a cubicle. Inside there was a bench and a clothing hook.

“What’s this?”

“Changing room,” Olga replied. Her voice was deep and sultry.

“What am I changing into?”

Olga thrust a white towel and plastic flip-flops into my hands. “Put purse and valuables in locker. You leave