Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (43 page)

Chuck grinned. Ned took that to mean that Chuck was confident that he would go through with it. “Sure, sure, I'll go see these guys,” he said, even though he still wasn't sure if he would.

“Good, good,” said Chuck. “Semyon will pick you up at your apartment Saturday morning.”

“What time?”

“When he gets there,” Chuck replied a little harshly, then followed it up with a hearty laugh. “So, you want some sandwich?” He smiled broadly and led Ned back into the restaurant. Bob nodded and grinned when he saw them coming out.

Since they had started seeing each other outside the mailroom, Ned barely communicated with Chuck and Bob when they were at work. They initiated the little moratorium on contact, and he was more than okay with it. He started eating his lunches alone, and had found that he tended to find reading in the sunshine much more pleasurable than engaging in their inane banter that rarely wavered from women and cars. And he certainly didn't like it when they would start talking to each other in Serbian, invariably ending up laughing at what Ned suspected was him.

By the time Friday rolled around, Ned was happy to put work behind him, but apprehensive about his weekend task and less than delighted to see Dave that evening.

As soon as he got to Dave's office, he started asking him the familiar questions he had asked him every two weeks since Ned had been in the witness protection program. He gave the same answers he always did in what he thought was the same way he always did until Dave interrupted him. “You sound bored, Mr. Steadman; bored with your lot in life,” he said in the almost-friendly way he had. “Maybe you're planning another road trip?”

Ned looked at him stunned. He hoped that Dave would interpret his surprise as him thinking the idea preposterous, not that he had read his mind. Ned laughed. “No, not looking to travel,” he said with a chuckle. “Looking for some of the other things young men enjoy.”

Dave sucked in a deep breath and sighed dramatically. Ned had suspected that Dave might be gay. But now, for the first time, he realized that his minder was also pretty attracted to him. “Hmmm, Ned, I have not forgotten what it was like to be young myself, you know,” he said, looking him in the eye. “Why can't you find yourself a nice girl? It is girls you like, right?”

Ned smiled generously. “Yeah.”

“You're a nice-looking, athletic boy; you should have no problem meeting girls,” Dave continued. “A nice girl should be able to get past the whole mailroom thing.”

Ned was desperate to change the subject. “So I can't travel at all?”

“Not without my permission.”

“Even in-state? This tiny, tiny little state?”

“Well, I guess you can't get into too much trouble in Delaware. I'll look the other way in-state.”

“Philly?”

“No.”

“Jersey?”

“Heavens no! What kind of girl are you looking for anyway?”

Ned laughed. “Just checking. How about Ocean Beach?”

“What's the matter with Reheboth?”

“Too many Jersey boys.”

Dave laughed and said, “You've got me there.” But then his face turned serious, even cold. “Listen, I know you were some kind of high flier back in the Midwest,” he said, trying to sound intimidating. “But now you are a mailroom clerk for a credit-assessment agency in Delaware, you got that?”

Ned tried not to laugh while he nodded.

“You may not be impressed by this office or my wardrobe or my car, but I represent the FBI around here, and we own you,” Dave snarled. “And bear in mind, young man, that if I get a hint of any criminal activity—or even if just don't like you—I can get a court order removing your protection. You'd get your old identity back and I could even get them to force you to pay back the money we fronted you. Then where would you be? I'll tell you. You would be broke, alone and sitting in plain sight with a big fat price on your head. How's that grab you?”

Ned tried to look grave. Of course, he had already run the odds in his head, and Dave's posturing struck him as silly and impotent. Ned couldn't think of anything to say but “I'll stay here.”

Dave smiled and apologized. “Don't make me order a tracking bracelet.”

Ned knew only a judge could do that, but he chuckled amiably and said he wouldn't make any trouble.

Ned woke up early on Saturday morning because he had no idea when Semyon was going to arrive. He didn't know what to do with himself. He'd read everything in his apartment, he didn't get enough TV channels to watch anything interesting, so he just put on a little music and puttered around his little place, alternatively cleaning, snacking and pacing around.

At around ten, Ned was washing his breakfast dishes when he heard a blast of music that shook his innards. He ran out into the street to see where the noise was coming from. In front of the building, he saw a bright green car—a ten-year-old Lexus with ridiculous spinning rims and gold trim—with all four windows open. The booming bass and high-pitched tweets of Euro house music were pouring out of it, and the whole car was shaking with every beat. Ned approached it cautiously. As he got close enough to touch the car, Semyon popped his head out of his window, grinned goofily and yelled, “Hey, Macnair. Get in.”

Ned couldn't help but roll his eyes. He got closer to Semyon, but found he still had to shout to be heard over his gut-busting stereo. “I'll be back in a second. I just gotta lock up,” he said to him. “But I'm not getting in that car until you turn that shit off.” Semyon laughed and nodded his head.

By the time Ned returned, Semyon had indeed turned his music off. “You really know how to be subtle,” Ned said as he got into the passenger seat.

“What is this word ‘subtle'?”

“Never mind, it would take a long time to explain and I don't think you would understand even if I did,” Ned told him.

Then he paused. “Are we really going to do this, just show up and demand Grigori's friend's money from a bunch of Lawbreakers?”

“Sure, man, sure,” Semyon assured him. “It's simple, they owe us, we go pick it up. It's no problem, man.” Then he giggled his little giggle.

“Two guys, unarmed.”

“Who says unarmed?”

“Well, I am.”

“No you're not, man; I have at least a dozen guns in the car, you have your pick—but we won't need them.”

“We won't?”

“We won't.”

“You're absolutely sure of this?”

Semyon just giggled.

Ned took a moment to size up his new associate. Semyon didn't look like the other Russians he had met. He had darker skin, darker eyes and seemed a bit thicker haired. He looked more like Abdullah, the Palestinian guy he knew from the fast-food place he often bought dinner from, than the other Russians. He had a strange pop-eyed look that made him seem younger than he almost certainly was and his body never stopped moving. It was like every inch of him was nervous all the time.

Ned and Semyon engaged in small talk for most of the two-hour trip. Ned really didn't want to hear any more of Semyon's music, so he kept him talking. It was pretty easy, as Semyon really liked to talk, mostly about himself. He told Ned that he was not actually Russian at all, but an Uzbek. Ned didn't know what an Uzbek was, so Semyon explained that his ancestors came from a Central Asian country called Uzbekistan that had once been ruled by the Russians as part of the Soviet Union.

“Isn't that like where Borat lives?” Ned asked.

Semyon laughed. “That's Kazakhstan—just north of Uzbekistan—they are assholes.”

Ned laughed. “So, what is Uzbekistan like?”

“I don't really know,” Semyon told him. “I've never been there.” He went on to explain that he was born and raised in a south Moscow neighborhood that was mostly Uzbek with a few other nationalities that didn't really register with Ned's consciousness. Semyon's grandfather had been a cotton farmer back in Uzbekistan before he was pressed into the Red Army. Apparently, the old man had quite a talent for machinery, so the Russians allowed him to move to Moscow and work as a truck mechanic. The family had been there ever since. “Just in time, too,” Semyon added. “The Muslims have since taken over and made Uzbekistan an even worse place.”

Because of the “-stan” in his native country's name, Ned just assumed Semyon was a Muslim. “So how did you get over here?”

“Back in the nineties,” he told him, “America was letting in lots of lots of people from the former Soviet Union, mostly skilled workers. One was an Uzbek called Djamolidine who worked in pharmaceuticals. My family raised enough money to convince him to say he is my father's brother. I got a Green Card.”

“It was that easy?”

“Back then, yes. But after 9/11 it became much more expensive, and the wait is much longer.”

Ned rolled his eyes. Semyon continued to prattle on and on about Uzbeks, Kazakhs, Russians, Moscow, Detroit and what made them all interesting to him. Ned was glad that Semyon was so content to hear himself speak, because keeping up the pretense of being Jared Macnair pretending to be Eric Steadman was taxing enough without having to come up with a detailed back story.

The tourist season hadn't really revved up in Ocean Beach yet, but most of the roadside shops and restaurants were already open when they arrived. Semyon said how much he liked the place, how it reminded him of a resort his family once took him to on the Black Sea when he was a boy and even took some time out to follow two school-age girls until they noticed him and ran down a side street.

They arrived at an old whitewashed and windblown building that had a sign outside that said “Mickey's.” There were a couple of customized Harleys out front, a pickup with a Harley-Davidson bumper sticker and a couple of old and beat-up cars. As soon as they got out of Semyon's car, Ned could hear some activity in the area. When he entered the bar, he was surprised at how dim it was inside and was overwhelmed by the odors of stale beer and old fryer grease. There was a bartender doing a crossword puzzle behind the bar. Unbidden, he told Ned and Semyon, “They're out back,” and pointed to a door through which Ned could see sunlight pouring in and could hear muffled talking and laughing.

As unwelcoming as the bar itself was, Mickey's wooden beachside patio was quite nice, and it was being enjoyed by about a half-dozen rough-looking men of various ages and a couple of women, who appeared to be in their forties. Ned recognized them as Lawbreakers right away from their clothes, jewelry and tattoos. One even had a picture of “Oscar,” the gang's cartoon convict mascot, tattooed on his neck.

The patio fell silent. Ned could hear the wind and waves and the shouts of some far-away children, and began to sweat. After a few agonizing seconds, a big man who was seated in the center of the patio stared at Ned in the eyes. Without averting his glance, he asked, “So, is this him?”

At that, a woman who was sitting on the patio's handrail put her brightly colored and fruit-festooned drink down and boozily approached Ned. She stopped about six inches away from him and focused on his eyes. Ned could smell her breath. She was in her mid forties, and her eyes came up to his lips despite her high heels. She had a big pile of harshly dyed hair on top of her head and wore a black leather jacket over a pink tank top and jeans. She grinned.

“So, is it him?” the beery fat man barked again.

She grinned again. “I think so,” she answered without taking her eyes off Ned, but not registering much focus.

“Waddaya mean you think so?” shouted the man angrily. “Didn't you say you fucked the guy?”

She shrugged and let out a bit of a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, but there were lots of guys that night and I was—well—I was really drunk.”