Hard Charger: Jake & Sophia: A Hot Contemporary Romance (8 page)

Chapter Seven

Simon Koschei didn’t think
of himself as a bad man.  Nor did he consider what he did evil.   No, he was just the
avtorityet
of a little
organizatsiya
that was helping a quaint old town drag itself out of the debris left by a hurricane.  At the same time, he was giving the
pakhan
and his
bratki
in Brooklyn a few new revenue streams.  Who could complain about that? 

He chuckled a little at the mere thought of it and re-adjusted his napkin over his trousers.  He was eating lunch at Rowdy Ray’s Roadhouse, one of the few half-decent restaurants in this little shithole of a town.  He looked up as a homely-looking waitress came over to his table.

“Another beer?” she asked, as she set a bowl of peanuts on the table.

He eyed her closely.  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Charlene,” she replied, and chewed her gum like a cow chewing cud.

“Well,
Charlene
, what I would
like
is for my two associates to get their
asses
over here like I told them, so we can have our
meeting
.”  He shook his head sadly.  “But since they’re too
dimwitted
to keep an eye on the time, now they’re
late
, and I gotta sit here drinking beers until they show up.”

“You want another beer, then?” she asked cautiously.

“Go get it, girl,” he relied, an edge of sarcasm to his voice.  Still, he smiled.  He liked smiling, especially when he was annoyed.  More than one person had called him a hilarious devil, a moniker he particularly appreciated.

“I’ll have it to you in a moment.”  She scurried away from the table, and he watched her go, wondering why Ray Morris had hired such an old bag to wait tables for him.  Where were the tits, the ass that you’d expect to see in a roadhouse? 

He looked around, his gaze resting on the pool table in the corner, and then on the wooden stage and dance floor, before settling on the bar.  Ray’s kid Luke was bartending and slinging plates of food around, and Simon considered going over to shoot the breeze with him, but then decided against it.  His damned ankles were bothering him again.  Just a touch of gout, nothing his doctor could do about it.

Instead, he sat back and congratulated himself.  The place looked good—thanks to him.  That was one of the reasons he liked eating here.  Not only did he get to enjoy the nice décor, but it also reminded good ole Ray who he owed.  Several people in Rockport Grove had forgotten that fact, and it made Simon sad, because he knew he’d have to send Winsome and Monahan over to remind them.

Almost as if thinking of them had conjured them, the two men Simon had been waiting for walked through the door. Both had on jeans and dark bomber-style jackets, and they looked tense, like junkies who need a fix.   Winsome was around sixty—Simon’s age—but Monahan fell somewhere south of forty. 

Ignoring the hostess, they stood for a moment like beagles scenting the air.  Their gazes finally fell upon Simon and they headed toward his booth, with Monahan in the lead and Winsome bringing up the rear.  Winsome rested his hand lightly on a bulge beneath his jacket. 

Simon smiled.  They were
bratok
, low-ranking soldiers who were sometimes extremely stupid, and sometimes tastelessly flamboyant.  Today, they were stupid, because they were late.  Still, they didn’t mind wet work and knew how to keep their mouths shut, and so Simon tolerated them and gave them the tough jobs.

“Look, it’s the Bobbsey Twins,” Simon commented loudly, remembering that ancient children’s book his
bobcha
used to read to him.  “Sit down, Bobbsey Twins.  Tell Papa Simon how life’s treating you.”

Simon noticed that the chatter in the bar had died down.  Several other diners looked their way, but Monahan’s and Winsome’s faces remained expressionless as they slid into the booth.  Monahan positioned himself so that he could sweep the entire room with a single gaze.  That’s what he did.  He watched.  He covered.

Winsome, on the other hand, was a protector.  He broke arms, cut off hands, shot out shins as needed.  Simon enjoyed the fact that Winsome was called
winsome
, if only because he was one of the ugliest bastards to ever crack a mirror.

“Life’s treating us pretty good,” Winsome replied.  Methodically he shelled and ate the peanuts.

Slowly, conversation returned to the bar.

“Well, life ain’t treating
me
good,” Simon groused, after a moment or two.  “This neighborhood, it’s got
dementia
.  It can’t
remember
things.”

“No, it can’t,” Monahan agreed.

The waitress stopped by then, dropped off Simon’s beer, took Monahan’s and Winsome’s order, and then disappeared again.

Simon sipped his beer.  “
You
two can’t remember things.  Didn’t you hear me say fucking two o’clock?”

Monahan nodded. “We heard you, boss.”

“And what time is it?” Simon asked.

Winsome continued to shell peanuts, though he worked more slowly now.  “Two fifteen.”

“That’s right.  You’re fifteen minutes late.  For fifteen minutes I’ve been sitting here, drinking beers that old hag brings me and thinking about how this neighborhood and my own
bratok
can’t
remember
.  It’s insulting.”

“We’re sorry, boss,” Monahan quickly replied.

“Sorry.  Sorry,” Simon gave him a mocking frown.  “Sorry doesn’t pay the bills.  It doesn’t keep my feelings from being hurt.”

Monahan swallowed and looked away, to sweep the bar with a nervous glance. 

Simon focused on Winsome.  “So...you got anything good to tell me?  Like maybe how people are starting to recall how I’ve bailed them out of
bankruptcy
?  That they’re grateful?”

Winsome stopped shucking peanuts.  “We delivered the messages.”

“Oh, you
did
.”  Simon made a show of thinking this over, though inside, he was still pissed that they’d made him sit around for fifteen minutes while they jacked off.   “And how were the messages received?”

“The Gallent bitch did nothing but piss and moan.”  Winsome shrugged his shoulders.  “You know women.”

“Ah, Christ.”  Simon shook his head.  “She knows that the interest is gonna keep compounding, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So is she gonna pay up?”

“No.  Not now, anyway.”

Simon nodded.  He’d expected exactly this.  Not many people paid up.  But he was okay with that, because if they didn’t pay up, he could use them in other ways. In fact, the
pakhan
in Brighton Beach preferred new
bratok
over payment. “She’s gonna front for us, then.”  He said this as a statement, not a question, because she’d be truly
stupid
to do anything else.

“Well, she didn’t agree to that either,” Winsome said.

“Christ on a cross!”  Simon shook his head sadly.  “You’re just gonna have to convince her.”

Winsome offered his boss a grim smile.  “I’m pretty good at that.”

“I
know
you are.”  He paused, annoyed that everyone needed all of this convincing, and then asked about the other matter.  “And Hansen?  Is he still bitching about being our loan front?”

An even grimmer smile curved Winsome’s lips.  “That’s why we’re late, boss.  We needed some extra time to convince him.  He was getting cold feet.”

“Cold
feet
?”  Simon leaned a little closer.  He didn’t hear Winsome speak with that kind of tone often: righteous, deeply satisfied.  “From the most benevolent businessman in all of Rockport Grove?  What a damned shame.”

“We thought so, too,” Monahan chimed in.  “He was sitting there in his blue suit, looking suave, with eyes so blue they could convince you he was one of God’s own angels.  But Mr. Winsome here, he knows his shit.”

“Yes I do,” Winsome agreed.

“So what happened?” Simon was all ears now.  “Did you threaten to cut his dick and balls off, and shove them down his throat?”

“Hey, we ain’t the Mexicans,” Monahan complained.

Winsome reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief.  Spots of blood stood out in bright red relief against the white cotton.  He handed it to Simon.  “A gift for you, boss. From Hansen.”

Simon took it and held it in his hand.  It didn’t weigh much.  The blood on it still felt wet.  “Is it a finger?”

“Nope.”

“Two fingers?”

Winsome shook his head.  “It’s better than that.”

Simon smiled.  “An...
ear
?”

“Nope.”

Unwilling to wait a moment longer, Simon carefully opened the handkerchief.  Inside lay something that looked like a grape with a tail, only it was ivory-colored and marked very faintly with tiny blue veins.  Simon’s smiled widened.  He chuckled, and the chuckle developed into a full-blown laugh.  “Goddamn it, Mr. Winsome, you are
clever
.”

Winsome smiled proudly.

“I thought you said you didn’t cut his balls off, though,” Simon pointed out, as his laughter died down.

“We just cut
one
ball out,” Winsome replied.  “And we left him his sack.”

“Yeah.  He can still fuck, have orgasms, even make more kids.  As long as he cooperates, that is,” Monahan added.  “We offered to sew his sack up for him, so he wouldn’t bleed all over his underwear, but he said
no
.”

Full of admiration, Simon slowly nodded.  “I’m sure he was happy to cooperate after that.”

“He was,” Monahan confirmed.

“Good.  So we just have to circle back around to the Gallent bitch.”

Winsome nodded. “We’ll go back next week.”

“What are you going to do next time?” Simon asked.  “Cut off one of her tits?”

The three men laughed, and Winsome resumed shucking peanuts.  “Sure would be a sight if I did,” he observed.

Monahan nodded his head toward Ray Morris, who’d just walked into the bar and was standing behind the mahogany counter, talking to his punk-ass son, Luke.  “What about him?”

Simon frowned.  Morris had so far been a hard nut to crack.  “Did you try taking one of
his
balls?”

“Too old and shriveled to bother with,” Winsome said.  “And he doesn’t seem to care about that finger he lost.”

“At least he can’t give anyone the salute anymore,” Monahan added.

“Go see him later tonight,” Simon advised.  “Explain once more to him why it’s not nice to borrow money and refuse to pay it back.  Maybe you could take one of his son’s balls to make your point, since Ray’s are so shriveled up.  It’ll be a message to everyone else who isn’t paying.”

Winsome nodded. “Will do, boss.”

Simon plucked Hansen’s ball out of the handkerchief.  He held the nugget up close so he could look at it.  “You know what I saw on
Bizarre Foods
the other night?  A
penis
restaurant.  Do you believe that shit?”  At Winsome and Monahan’s blank looks, he continued, “All they served were cooked penises and balls.  Testicle soup, blackened testicle with lemon grass, chopped lettuce and testicle salad...”  He trailed off, remembering, then continued.  “The funny thing is, it all looked pretty damned good.” 

His curiosity awakened, Simon popped the little thing into his mouth and chewed.  It tasted a little rubbery, but it had a delightfully squishy center.  “Just like a bon bon.  A salty one.”

Monahan reflexively grabbed his crotch.  Winsome’s face, however, remained expressionless.

Just then, the waitress came over with Winsome’s and Monahan’s beers.  “You guys want any appetizers?” she asked, as she put the beers on the table.

“I’ve already had mine,” Simon told her, and patted his rounded belly with satisfaction.

Chapter Eight

Jake didn’t fall asleep
easily that night.  A storm of images taunted him: his mother, crying; Sophia’s crushed look as she observed him with that hooker at Rowdy Ray’s; Alex whispering
From Russia with Love
in a lowered voice, which then became broken, garbled, like conspiratorial whispers without a source.  They worked together to keep him tossing and turning, and his eyes felt like hot marbles in their sockets when he finally fell asleep, well after midnight.

The knocking started at around three AM in the morning.

Jake was floundering deep in a nightmare of swirling sands and artillery fire.  The knocking sounded like bombs going off.  He started running, and looking for his CO, or the sat link, or anything that might help...

The knocking continued, penetrated his dream.  He sat straight up.  Shook himself.  Realized that there were no bombs, he wasn’t in the desert.  He jumped out of bed, pulled pajama bottoms on and ran to his mother’s room.  She was lying in bed, snoring, earplugs in, some kind of frilly ice pack over her eyes.

He turned and hurried down the stairs.  The front porch light was on, and windows on either side of the door gave him a glimpse of a woman with long, reddish-brown hair.

Sophia.

“What the hell?”  He strode to the front door and yanked it open.

As though she’d been leaning on the door, Sophia piled into the house.  Jake assessed her with a quick glance.  Clear eyes, pinched-looking mouth; high, hectic color in her cheeks.

Not drunk. 
Terrified.

He opened his arms.  “Sophia!”

She fell into them, her body warm and firm against his.  She smelled like roses.

He hugged her, then held her back at arm’s length so he could look at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Jake,” she breathed, her voice trembling.  “Something happened near Rowdy Ray’s.  Outside the Guardians’ clubhouse.  Something bad.  It must have happened a while ago, but I just saw it.”  She was talking so quickly that Jake could hardly understand her.

“Hey, slow down.  What do you mean by ‘something bad?’”

“I saw blood,” she replied, and drew in a great, hiccupping breath.  “A lot of it.  Smearing the white lines in the road.  Luke’s there.  He told me to get you.”

Jake’s heart thumped in his chest.  “Luke’s hurt?”

“No, not Luke.”

“Then who?”

“His dad, I think.”

Jake groaned.  He pulled away from her and pressed a hand against his suddenly aching forehead.  “An accident?”

“No.  His head.  It was bashed in.  Like someone went at him with a baseball bat.”

Jake had heard enough.  “Let’s go.”

They hurried out the door and ran toward the garage, with Jake in the lead.  He mounted his bike, and then realized that as a café racer, it had only enough room for one rider.

“We can take my car,” Sophia said urgently.  They raced over to her VW Beetle.  She got behind the steering wheel, he took the passenger seat, and then they were speeding through the streets toward Rowdy Ray’s.

The drive took less than five minutes.  Blue and red emergency lights lit the buildings and trees near the roadhouse.  Sophia pulled up slowly and parked near two police cars.  They both jumped out of the car and hurried toward the motorcycle clubhouse, whose driveway was currently cordoned off with yellow police tape.

Kat, Sophia’s mom, had her arms around Luke, who was standing near the police cars.  Further on, an ambulance sat with its rear doors open, displaying medical equipment, but the men who tended to the figure on the stretcher had no urgency to their movements.  Two police officers were marking the road, taking measurements and recording various facts into tablets.

Jake and Sophia walked over to Luke and stood a few respectful feet away.

“Luke, I’m so sorry, man,” Jake said softly.

Luke heard him and looked up with dull eyes.  “He’s dead.  My dad is
dead
.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing.  He’s gone.”

Jake sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “What happened?”

Luke dragged off the bandana he’d been wearing, revealing sandy blond hair that was matted down with sweat.   His voice was high-pitched, on the edge of breaking down. “Don’t know.  No one saw anything.”

Her face etched with worry and grief, Sophia put a hand on Luke’s arm.  “Who can I call for you, Luke?”

“My aunt.”  Luke’s chest heaved with his breathing.  He pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket.  “I don’t know how to tell her.”

Sophia took the phone from him.  “I’ll call her, hon.  Is her number in your contacts?”

“Yeah.  Aunt Marion,” he wheezed.

While Sophia started looking through Luke’s phone call for the phone number, Jake pulled Luke to the side.  His attention fell on the two police officers who were interviewing a couple who’d just exited the roadhouse.  “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.  “I wish I’d been here to stop whatever happened.  I’m gonna miss him.”

“Me too, Jake.” Luke had his hands fisted by his sides.  “Goddamn cops better get whoever did this.”

“Do you have any idea?  Why would someone want to hurt him?”  Jake didn’t understand it. Ray Morris had been a decent guy, the kind who had always helped others in times of trouble.  It made no sense to suggest that someone would bash his head in.

At that moment, Sophia connected with Luke’s aunt and began to deliver the bad news.  Luke glanced over at her, then refocused on Jake.  “Everyone loved my dad.” He paused and took a deep breath.  Then, suddenly, his shoulders slumped.  “But he was bankrupt.”

Jake stiffened with surprise.  “How is that possible?  The roadhouse, it’s in great shape, lots of people go there—”

“He owed money,” Luke cut in.  “A lot of it.”

“To who?”

“I don’t know.  He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”  Luke’s jaw tightened.  

“So your dad borrowed money in order to renovate Rowdy Ray’s.”  Jake had a slow, sinking feeling deep inside.  He remembered his mother’s black eye.  “Is it possible that he borrowed the money from a guy named Will Hansen?”

Luke shrugged.  “He didn’t say.”

Just then, Sophia clicked off the cell phone and returned to Luke’s side.  “Your aunt’s coming down from Connecticut.  She’ll be here in a few hours.”

“Thanks, Sof.”  Luke took his cell phone back.

“Luke, you need to look through your dad’s records,” Jake urged.  “Find out who loaned him the money.  See if it’s Will Hansen.”

Sophia shot Jake a warning look.  “Right now, Luke has to see to his dad.”

Jake nodded.  “Of course.”

The emergency workers finished loading the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.  The ambulance doors closed with a final, echoing sound, and a sob broke from Luke.  Sophia immediately put her arms around him.  Jake felt like putting his fist through a wall—he hated feeling so damned helpless.

A man dressed in a chinos and a button-d0wn shirt walked over to them.  With his short blonde hair cut close to his head and gun in the holster at his waist, he had the unmistakable air of someone in charge.  He stood in front of Luke and assessed the younger man closely.  “Hi, Luke.  I’m Detective Fielding. Very sorry for your loss.”

Luke wiped at his eyes.  “Thank you.”

“I need to ask you a few questions, if you’re up for it.”

The ambulance pulled away.  Luke followed it with his gaze.  “Where are they taking my dad?  To Franklin General?”

Fielding spoke gently.  “He’s being taken to the Monmouth County medical examiner’s office.  We need to perform an autopsy.”

“When will he be released for funeral services?” Sophia asked.

“Within the week.”  Fielding put his hand on Luke’s arm.  “May I ask you some questions?”

“Yeah, why not.”  Luke’s voice was now monotone.

Fielding pointed toward the roadhouse.  “Why don’t we go inside and sit down?”

Luke didn’t answer, but instead allowed the detective lead him to the roadhouse.  Jake watched them go, grief for both Rowdy Ray and Luke eating at him like acid.  Then he turned to Sophia, who had tears running down her cheeks.  He slung an arm around her shoulder.  “Wanna get a coffee or something?”

She shook her head no and wiped the tears from her cheeks.  “Better not, Jake.  I just get into trouble around you.”

“But you came to
me
,” he pointed out.  “When you knew there was trouble.”

She ducked her head and blew her nose.  “Luke’s your friend.  I knew that you’d want to be there.”

He pulled her a little closer, and she didn’t resist.  “Where’s Alex?”

“He’s staying in Asbury Park overnight with a few friends.”

“Did you call him?”

“Didn’t have a chance.  I will later.”

As Jake digested this information, they started walking toward her car.  Sophia tossed him the keys when they reached it.  “You mind driving?  I feel too unsteady to drive.”

“No.” 

A few minutes later, they were on their way back to Jake’s house.  He was still stunned by the last few days’ events.  “I’m shocked,” he stated baldly, as he turned down Ocean Drive and headed toward the Salt Key Beach Homes development.  “I feel like I’m back on the battlefield.”

Sophia glanced out toward the ocean.  Although daybreak was still a while away, the first hint of grays and pinks had appeared on the horizon.  “Our hometown’s gone to Hell,” she agreed.  “It wasn’t so apparent before, but lately...”

“There’s some kind of loan sharking going on here,” he muttered.  “Ray apparently owed money, and maybe that got him killed.”  He paused, swallowed, and then continued, “Earlier tonight, I found out that my mom owes money, too.”

She sighed heavily and refocused her attention on him.  “Jake, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”  He gripped the steering wheel harder.  She didn’t seem surprised at all.  “What’s going on here?  What do you know?”

“You just got home,” she pointed out.  I’ve been here a lot longer than you.  I’ve seen things.  And I’ve heard things. There are a lot of people who owe money in this town.  Most of those loans are coming due right about now.  We’re going to see some more trouble, I’m sure of it.”

He pulled the car to an abrupt stop on the side of the road.  “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Hurricane Sandy ripped this town to shreds.”  She frowned and glanced out at the ocean, clearly searching for the right words, before looking back at him.   “It left behind nothing but wrecked houses, destroyed businesses and shattered dreams.   When folks didn’t get enough cash from the insurance companies or the government, they borrowed from Will Hansen.”

“Will Hansen,” he repeated angrily.  “Not the first time I’ve heard his name.”

“Yeah, he’s supposedly the most benevolent businessman in town.  But he’s really a front for organized crime. “

“Jesus Christ.”

“Religion has nothing to do with it,” she told him dourly.  “Anyone who borrowed from Will Hansen now owes the organization.  Including your mom.”

“How do you know these things?”

She shrugged.  “I hear them.”

“How?  You have phone taps set up?” he asked sarcastically.

“While waitressing,” she clarified.  “People don’t always notice me...I’m just the waitress.  So they talk.  Say lots of things.”

He thought something in her tone rang false.  “So you think organized crime is now running Rockport Grove.”

“I do.  It’s a Russian-based syndicate.  I can tell by the accents and the Russian words they use here and there.”

He nodded.  He recalled that Alex and Sophia both had relatives in the Ukraine.  “And my mom...”

“She’s gonna have to find the cash, if she wants out,” she replied.

He felt his heart give a giant thump in his chest.  “Fuck that.  I’m going to the cops.”

“Don’t,” she urged, and put a hand on his arm.  “They’re corrupt.  Puppets.  They belong to the organization.”

“How do you
know
that?”

“I told you.  I hear things.”

“This is all bullshit,” he said angrily.  “What the fuck did I serve in Afghanistan for?  Why was I fighting for their freedom if we don’t have any freedom here in my hometown?”

She flinched at his words.  “I know.  It sucks.”

“I’m going to the cops.”

She pulled in a deep breath, then let out it.  “Please.  Reconsider.”

“Unless you can give me more evidence than ‘I hear things,’ I’m going to the cops.”  He started the car, threw it in drive, and started back toward his house.  His gut was churning.  He felt trapped.  “What happens if my mom doesn’t pay off her loan?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  “I suppose there are other ways she could pay them back...”

“What other ways?”

“Help them launder money, maybe, through the salon?  Or even deal prescription drugs?”