Page 16 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Bonnie

“You want a coffee…. Or a cigarette?” Kostin asks, sliding into the seat across from me.

A single light dangles down from the ceiling of the baren concrete room. There aren’t any windows, so that’s the only light I have to discern the grave expression on Kostin’s face.

“What is this, like a police interrogation or something?”

“Something like that,” he replies, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He rolls it across the table toward me with his pinky.

“I don’t smoke,” I say, as I reach for it. Maybe I don’t anymore, but the stress is bringing back the old me. That’s the woman who got herself in trouble in the first place, but I can’t help reverting to her when things get tough.

Stress will eat away your guts, and leave you gaunt like a corpse, unless you do something to take the edge off. Tonight, it’s a cigarette. Tomorrow, who know what it’ll be?

Kostin leans forward, brandishing a lighter, and lets the orange flame lick the end of my newly awakened addiction before settling back into his chair in silence. He lets me smoke for half a minute before he opens his mouth again.

“You’re lucky to be alive. I hope you know that,” he says, keeping his body frighteningly still as he speaks.

I tap ash onto the floor beside me. I wasn’t given an ash tray. Kostin has no reaction.

I take another drag and speak with the smoke in my lungs. “Why’d you kill him?”

“Jerry?”

I nod.

“He pulled a knife on me,” he replies coldly.

“You could’ve, like, wrestled it out of his hand or something. You’re three times his size.”

“I’ve learned not to take chances,” he says. “Besides, I don’t think you liked him very much. Maybe I did you a favor.”

“Murdering people isn’t doing anyone a favor, much less yourself,” I scold. “You’re going to be a wanted man.”

He chuckles. “There’s a lot you don’t know, but I don’t blame you. You’re just a woman of the night, getting by the best way you know how.”

His tone isn’t condescending, but I take a hit to my pride at his words. It’s even more painful because it’s true.

I tap another broken cylinder of ash onto the floor and it disappears into the darkness. “I don’t think you’re a cop,” I say, searching for answers.

“You’re right,” he says, his lips curling up into a smile. His eyes are blank, though, expressionless and ice cold. “I have too much self-respect to put myself at risk for such a pitiful salary. I prefer money hard and fast.”

“Are you a gambler?”

“I’m a gambler, a lover, a sinner, and a saint. I’m whatever you want me to be, darling, but tonight, I’m going to be the one asking questions. I want to know about Jerry.”

“Well, for one, he’s fucking dead,” I reply. The shocking reality of my predicament is still setting in, but I don’t feel good about it. I didn’t like Jerry, but I didn’t want him dead.

Kostin doesn’t react to my obvious statement. He just stares at me, waiting for me to continue.

“Alright, fine,” I say with a sigh. “He was the owner of the Diamond Score, really obsessed with working us all to death, and he wore the same shirt every day.”

“Was he married?”

“Not anymore, but he likes to bitch about his ex-wife.” I pause. “Liked. He liked to bitch about her, but I think they separated back in the 90s.”

“Any kids?”

“Not that I know of.”

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