Page 189 of Brooklyn Cupid

“What help you need?” the same guy asks, not taking his eyes off me.

“My girl.”

He snorts, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “She ran away?”

The other guys chuckle and spit on the ground.

“She got kidnapped,” I answer.

I don’t know why I explain myself, but I learned at war that sometimes help comes in unexpected forms. These guys might know how to get a boat.

“Kidnapped? You serious?” The guy leans with his palms on the railing next to me, a cigarette hanging from his mouth as he squints at me through the smoke.

“Yeah.”

He nods toward the bay. “Blond girl and old guy on the Flyer?”

I meet his eyes. He must be a boater if he casually smokes during a party but notices every boat that comes in or out.

I nod, keeping his stare.

Next, his heavy paw is on my shoulder, shaking me with what apparently is reassurance. “We can get her, man.”

I want to laugh in his face, but he seems friendly in his own brutally awkward Eastern European way. His tipsy eyes squint at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m up for whatever crazy idea just triggered his brain.

“??!2” He turns to his friends, says something in his language, and they circle me.

“Let’s go get her,” one of them says as he flicks what looks like a joint in his hand with his finger.

I wonder if they are drunk. It’s hard to say. The Eastern European gauge for booze is a unicorn with three eyes.

“I’m Alex,” the tall guy says slowly like we are making friends at a banquet, and stretches his hand for a shake.

“Jace.”

“Dzima, Misha,” he introduces the others.

They shake my hand with caution like we are striking a deal but they are wondering if I’m tricking them.

“You know where to get a boat around here right now? A fast one?” I ask.

“You fucking with us?” Alex chuckles, exchanging mocking glances with his friends.

“I can pay.”

“Where do you think you are?”

It’s a boat club, I’m not dumb. But a lot of random people probably come to drink here.

The guy named Dzima turns to his bud. “Bro, there’s cognac on the boat. And I need air.” His English is great.

“I need to fuck,” the guy called Misha murmurs and looks in the direction of the girls who chill at a distance.

“Okay, let’s go.” Alex swings his forefinger in the air.

“Go where?” I ask, my heart giving out an excited thud, because I’m ready to chase Reznik and my Lu as far as the Caribbean.

“What you mean where? Get cognac and get your girl.”

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