Betting Blind (12 page)

Irina laughed her head off when she saw my ride. She climbed into her seat, chuckling, and then she really lost it, pounding her knee with her breath coming in gasps.

“I told you,” I said.

“It’s epic,” she wheezed. She pointed at a white sticker on the glove box: “There are two types of pedestrians, quick and dead
.
”

“It was that way when I got it. It won’t come off.” I pulled her in for a kiss. She stopped laughing and kissed me back, good and hard, and held the back of my neck as if she was hungry for more.

“Damn, Irina,” I said when she let go. “You trying to make me lose it right here in front of your house?”

She smiled proudly. Whoever said good girls are the freakiest was dead-on.

I pulled out of her driveway, and she dug in her bag. “I brought some music, but I don’t know, does this thing even have a sound system?”

“Very funny.” Actually, it had an excellent sound system. I’d made sure of that. I turned it on to show her.

She frowned. “The bass is way out of balance. Here.” She fiddled with the knobs and slid in one of her CDs. “You don’t want the bass to overwhelm everything else; otherwise you lose texture.”

“Speak for yourself.” I paused. “Irina, what
is
this?”

“Timati,” she said. “It’s Russian rap.”

And it was. If you had told me Russians were trying to rap, I would have died laughing. But this dude had solid beat, he had power, and even in Russian, I could tell he had rhyme. I pictured a big fur-wearing, squinty-eyed mutha with one of those bear hats.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Irina said knowingly.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Although I never would have thought Russians could rap.”

Irina gave me a triumphant look. I reached for her hand and held it while I drove. Her thumb tapped softly inside my palm.

CHAPTER TEN

W
hen we got past the 509, I hit Roxbury Street and drove into White Center. Roxbury is a straight shot, and with every block the houses get a little older, and the cars get a little more thrashed, and pretty soon you start noticing every other store is a liquor store, and then you see bars on the windows, and then you realize, oh crap, when did everybody turn into gangsters? And then you’re in White Center.

Irina was staring out the window in fascination. “This is your old neighborhood?”

“Yeah. We lived here six years. But New York always felt like home.”

“Everybody from New York says that, even the Russians.”

“Well, it
is
the best place in the world.” I swung down Twenty-Sixth and pulled up outside Missy’s beat-up old ranch house, which had a rusty pickup permanently parked on the lawn. “Wait here, I gotta do something really fast.”

Irina frowned. “What do you have to do?”

I hadn’t thought this part out very well, I realized. “Just drop off something for my friend.”

“Can I come with you?”

“I’ll only be a second. Don’t worry, this hood is totally safe during the day.”

Irina looked annoyed, but she leaned back in her seat to wait.

I ran in, not bothering to knock, because I’d practically lived there before I moved away. Missy was sprawled on the brown vinyl couch, flicking through channels, a liter of Dr Pepper tucked in her arm. She muted the tube. “Hey! You got here fast.”

“Yeah, there was no traffic for once. Here.” I stuck the envelope of money between a dirty mug and an ashtray on the coffee table.

Missy gave me a sharp look and said, “You’re in a hurry.” I can never get anything past her.

I glanced out the window. “I got someone waiting in the car.”

“You’re turning red!” Missy sat up. “Who is she?”

“Just some girl.”

Missy pulled back the curtain to peer out. “No way! The mighty Gabe is crushing.”

“Missy.” I gave her a begging look.

“Okay, okay. Let me get your stuff, and you can get back to your lady. You should have brought her in.” Missy paused, examining my face. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

I shrugged.

“Good girl, huh. Don’t go breaking her heart, Gabe.”

I scowled. I didn’t have a thing to say to that, because I’d been a jerk to Missy’s cousin Brit, and then her friend Sabrina, and Missy had never gotten over it. She refused to hook me up with anyone after that.

“Hold on a sec.” Missy got the stuff, and we handled our business fast. Today it was e and some Oxies again, which fit fine in a vitamin bottle inside my jacket. I figured with the payoff from this load, I’d be ready to call the Craigslist people and make an offer on the car. I put everything away and told Missy thanks.

“No worries.” She gave me a hard look. “Be nice to her.”

I rolled my eyes—all girls were batting for the same team—and headed outside. The car was empty.

Every blood vessel in my body squeezed, and my breath dropped.
Fucking hoods, somebody snatched her!
I stood frozen for a second; then I ran down the driveway and into the street and yelled her name.

Nothing. Just a dog barking, and cars slicing by on Roxbury.

“Irina!” I yelled again. I fumbled in my pocket for my cell. I hadn’t left her for more than five minutes. Should I call 9-1-1? I pictured some pimp thug dragging her by her hair into one of those nasty beat-downs, and . . . “Irina!” I yelled again. I ran a few steps one direction, then turned around and ran like an idiot the other way. “Irina!”

She came walking out of somebody’s yard. “What?”

I stared at her. My heart was slamming.

“I was looking around,” she said coolly.

“You were looking around,” I repeated.

“Yeah. Next time don’t leave me.” She gave me her saltiest look and folded her arms across her chest. She had been trying to teach me a lesson.

“What the hell, Irina! You scared me!”

“Good,” she said.

I was so mad, it wasn’t safe to talk. I just stared at her and tried to force myself back to normal temperature. I’d been ready to bust into these sheds for her, take a bullet, whatever.

Irina got in the car. After a second, I followed her. “That was completely messed up,” I said after slamming the door shut.

“I don’t think it’s very nice of you to leave me outside in a strange neighborhood while you do an errand,” she said. “Is there a girl in there?”

“What? No! Or yeah, there’s a girl, but it’s not like that. She’s just a friend.” The idea of anything going on with Missy was so crazy, I couldn’t even take it seriously. “I told you I had to drop some–thing off. If I knew it was such a big deal, I would have had you come in.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

I threw open the car door. She was high maintenance. Girls that good-looking were always high maintenance. “Come on.”

It was a bluff; most girls would have said,
No, baby, it’s okay, I believe you
, but Irina got out and followed me, looking satisfied. I knocked on Missy’s door again. It opened right away; I bet she’d been watching from behind the curtains.

I said, “Missy, my girl wants to meet you and make sure I’m not running some game.”

Missy’s eyes did the girl thing: zip, zap, up and down over Irina. She gave me a mischievous look. “Well, Gabe is a slut,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I guess you probably know that.”

Irina cocked her head. “No, I didn’t know that. Tell me more.”

“You should talk to my cousin Brit and my friend Sabrina.”

“Missy!” I glared at her. “Quit messing with her. She’s going to believe you.” I turned to Irina. “She’s just playing head games.”

“Yeah, I’m just kidding,” Missy said. “Gabe is not at
all
a player. You can totally trust him.” And she fell apart, giggling.

“Is that right?” said Irina.

I grabbed her arm. “Let’s go. Missy’s completely screwing with you right now. We’ve been friends since fifth grade, and she loves to mess with me.”

Missy nodded. “That’s right. Don’t believe anything I say.” She widened her eyes. “I’m
such
a liar.”

I practically hauled Irina down the steps, then turned to give Missy the evil eye. She called, “Just trying to warn her!”

Irina got back in the car and gave me a curious look. “Well, that was very informative.”

I peeled out hard. “Don’t let her get in your head. Missy loves to joke around.”

“Hmm,” said Irina. “Gabe, how many girls have you slept with?”

“What kind of question is that? Come on, Irina.”

“An honest question, so give me an honest answer.”

I stared straight ahead and drove faster. Bringing her here was the stupidest idea I’d ever had. “None. I’m a virgin.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.”

How many girls
had
I slept with? I wasn’t sure. There had been lots of hookups at parties, starting in eighth grade. That was five whole years ago.

There was a long silence. Irina said, “Take me home. If you can’t even be honest with me about that, we’re not friends at all.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know how many people you’ve slept with?”

“No.” I looked over at her. “Why are you here, anyway? You’re obviously too good for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You, Miss Perfect Straight-Edge Violin-Playing Russian Model. Why are you even wasting your time?” I sounded bitter; I didn’t care.

Irina got a funny expression. “Well, because I like you, for one. I feel like there’s somebody under there.”

“Under
where
?”

“Under your cool veneer. Everybody lets their real self out sooner or later. Usually it takes about two months.”

“Oh, you’ve got this worked out.”

“I’ve dated a few jerks. Two months is how long it’s always taken me to realize it. But I don’t think you’re a jerk. Just a player.”

“Then why are you getting involved with me?”

“Because I can handle you.” She gave me a cool look. “Now, are we going to get my ID or not?”

I chuckled, couldn’t help it.
Cocky Russian.
I turned down a side street and started heading back. “Maybe I’ll be the one handling you,” I informed her.

She smiled. “We’ll see about that.”

Damon’s mom, Jennifer, lived in Mickey’s Bar from when her shift at the DMV ended to whenever she: a) passed out; b) went home with somebody; c) got a fit of conscience and went hunting for Damon.

Mickey’s was famous for being the biggest dive in Washington, and the regulars took pride in it. A few years ago, our old neighbor, Joey, had T-shirts made that said “Mickey’s Ain’t for Mice” over a picture of a steaming vat labeled “Skunk Juice.” Fran, the bartender, was famous for it. She kept a soup pot behind the bar where she dumped all the dregs from empties, and sometimes she threw in a little something top-shelf for flavor. It got people drunk fast and easy in a short time, which was a high priority at Mickey’s. And it was only a dollar a shot.

I parked along the street outside the bar. You could see Irina was thinking twice as she got out. The sidewalk around Mickey’s had big gaps in the concrete and a blanket of butts on the ground. The dirty white building was stuck between a video store and a taquería, and you wouldn’t know it was a bar except for a sad little electric “Coors” sign hanging over the door.

“She lives
here
?” Irina said as I headed to the door.

“Well, she goes home to sleep. This is her bar. She always drinks here after work, and she’s way more likely to hook up an ID for cheap if we catch her after a few beers.”

“Are they going to let us in?”

“Yeah, they know me. My mom used to come here sometimes.” I pushed open the door and held it for Irina.

Mickey’s was a long rectangle with the bar against one wall, a pool table shoved into a corner, and an old-school jukebox loaded with Sammy Hagar, Zeppelin, and Whitesnake. Fran kept it dark in there, but there was no hiding the layers of dirt and the nappy carpet worn down to the threads. There were cardboard signs with “Skunk Juice, $1 a Shot” written in Sharpie, and some brown plastic stools lined up against the bar.

Def Leppard was playing on the jukebox, and Jennifer was leaning on the bar with a can of Bud Light, chatting with Fran. Fran was as yoked as a man, with curly red hair and blue eye shadow that looked like glitter pen. She was a big favorite with the biker dudes who sometimes stopped through. When we walked in, she and Jennifer stopped talking and stared at us.

Jennifer broke into a smile. “Gabe, good to see you. Where’s your mom at?” Her eyes ran over Irina.

Fran didn’t look as thrilled to see us. She folded her arms across her chest. “You know I can’t have you in here.”

“I just have to talk to Jennifer for a second.”

Irina was looking nervous. I wished I could tell her to chill; this was just the dance we had to go through. Fran made a snorting noise and wandered down the bar, wiping it down with a rag that looked like its job was to make things dirty.

Jennifer gave me a knowing look and knocked back a swig of beer. “Don’t even say it. I know what you’re here for.”

“Please?”

She chuckled. “Oh boy. You got them eyes.”

“Come on, Jennifer, you know the laws in this country are messed up. We saved two hundred bucks.”