Inga

The deal Stan Lewinski had made for the Dodge that afternoon had put him in a good mood. Once the re-birthers paid him, the windfall would fund his betting for a whole month. He decided to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way home to celebrate, and also to dull the razor tongue of his wife… for a few hours, at least.

He started to pack up for the evening. These days he usually stretched his workdays for as long as he could. The less time he had to spend with his shrew of a wife in the evening, the better! If he had been twenty years younger, he might have clawed his way out of their dead marriage. But he wasn’t. He was old, and he was tired. Pretty much just counting time, socking away as much money as he could for his grandchildren. Besides them and the races, what else was there?

Whistling, he put on his jacket and hat and bent to pick up his briefcase. He stopped halfway and cursed, aware suddenly of the urgent need to take a piss. That’s how it was these days. No warning. Fine one minute and on the verge of wetting his pants like a toddler the next.

He straightened, groaning a little, and was about to head to the John when he heard tires on the gravel driveway.

“Who calls on a man at this time of night?” he asked, in disgust.

He stalked to the door, ready to treat the unexpected visitor a warm slice of ‘fuck off’ pie. He watched as a long black Mercedes crawled up the drive and pulled up outside his office, lights on and engine running.

The sleek stretch limo looked out of place in his boneyard, and its blackened windows lent it a sinister air. Trying to look braver than he felt, he stomped down the steps and glared at the dark windows.

“I’m closed!” he yelled, in his best crabby old man voice.

Nothing. Feeling disquiet, Stan stalked to the front of the car and held a hand up to shade his eyes from the glaring headlights.

“I said, I’m closed!”

The car revved suddenly, and the old man jumped quickly out of the way, clutching his chest. A second later the engine and headlights were switched off. The rear doors opened, and four men got out.

“What are you, wise guys?” he yelled, trying to sound braver than he felt. “You’ll give an old man a heart attack.”

“Forgive my driver,” said the shortest of the men in a heavy Russian accent. “He is still getting used to the new car.”

“Well, I was telling you I’m closed, so if you wouldn’t mind turning your nice big shiny car around, I want to go home. You can come back tomorrow.”

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, Stan could make out the man who had spoken. He was well dressed and smiling. His smile did anything but put the old man at ease.

“I understand Sir, and I won’t keep you any longer than I have to. Please, would you mind stepping back inside your office for a moment?”

Stan was about to argue when one of the other men stepped up close to him. The old man’s eyes widened. Unlike his boss, the man didn’t display any emotion at all, and with his heavy brow and blocky build, put the old man in mind of a brick with eyes.

“I suppose I can give you five minutes,” he said, looking back to Molenski. “That’s all, though. My wife will shoot me if I’m not home too late… you understand?”

The Russian laughed heartily.

“Oh, I understand completely!” the Russian said, placing an arm over Stan’s skinny shoulders and guiding him to the steps. “My own wife, God rest her soul, also had a temper. Come, let us speak inside.”

Stan allowed himself to be ushered back inside his office.

“Please, sit,” said Molenski.

The old man was about to refuse but the big man, who was sticking to him like shit to hair in an ass crack, pushed a chair into the back of his legs. Stan sat at the small table he had set up for customers who never queued and folded his arms tightly across his chest. The Russian sat down opposite.

“Please relax, Mister..?”

“Lewinski. Stan Lewinski.”

“Mr. Lewinski, thank you. I am Dimitri Molenski. Now, I am here about a car…”

“Well, you can come back tomorrow, if you don’t mind I have to be getting home.”

Stan tried to stand up and found himself shoved back into the chair by the meaty hand of the brick.

“Please, Mr. Lewinski, I really don’t want things to become – shall we say – unpleasant. Andre here has a quick temper. Just allow me a few moments of your time and we can all go home.”

“Fine, fine,” snapped Lewinski. “What car?”

“A gray Dodge Challenger,” said the Russian, watching the old man closely.

The old man’s guts turned to water. He should have trusted his instincts earlier, but his greed had won out.

“What, you want to buy one?” he bluffed. “I don’t have one; you should try the used car dealer down the…”

Molenski slammed his open hand down on the card table. The old man jumped.

“I know you took possession of one today. I know that because it’s mine.” The old man opened his mouth to speak, but Molenski held up his hand. “That’s neither here nor there, Stan –do you mind if I call you Stan? – all I need from you is information.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve never bought or sold a Dodge Challenger. In fact I…”

Molenski waved a lazy hand at Andre who seized the old man’s wrist and peeled his hand away from his chest before separating his pinky from his other fingers. Without pause, he snapped it backward. The muffled pop of bones breaking was loud in the small room, but not as loud as the old man’s scream.

Molenski winced sympathetically and nodded his head.

“I know, I know – it must hurt like a bitch. Now Stan, please, just tell me what I need to know and as I said before, we’ll be out of your hair.”

The old man was beside himself; his eyes squeezed shut as he rocked back and forth, moaning and cradling his damaged hand.

“Stan, please.”

Stan Lewinski ignored the Russian bastard, hoping, like a bad dream, he would just go away. It wasn’t until he felt his hand grabbed again and the finger next to his mangled pinky separated from its fellows that he capitulated.

“All right, all right! Yes, I bought it today! Please! I can give it back… no more… please…”

“Excellent,” said Molenski. “Now we’re making some progress. Tell me, was it a big man with a crew cut?”

“Yes,” said Stan, his voice strained. “Him and his girl, a pretty thing.”

Molenski nodded and leaned ever so slightly forward on his chair.

“Good, now think very carefully, did he say where he was going?”

“No,” said Stan, honestly. He was compliant now, willing to tell the man anything he wanted to know. “He did buy a car from me, though. A Hyundai. I’ll give you the registration details; they’re in my filing cabinet.”

“Excellent. You’re sure he said nothing else?”

“No Sir, it was a quick transaction, just the way I like,” Stan said, smiling ingratiatingly. His broken finger was shrieking louder than his wife in an argument, but finally, he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He just wanted these people gone so he could go home and see to his finger.

“Good,” said Molenski, standing up. “You’ve been very helpful. Give Andre here the details.”

He headed for the door.

“But what about your car?”

“Keep it,” said Molenski over his shoulder before going through the door.

Stan was confused but relieved to see the back of the Russian, and keeping the car was a bonus. He stood up and shot the thug who had broken his finger a dirty look and headed behind the counter to his filing cabinet. He pulled out the folder with the details for the Hyundai and turned around to find the big man right in his face. He took a wary step back and held out the folder.

Andre reached out with one of his long arms, but instead of taking the folder he grasped Stan Lewinski’s wrist and pulled him into a bear hug, his free hand snaking up behind the old man’s head and pulling his face into his chest.

The move was unexpected and done in such a way that at first, Stan thought the man was comforting him, perhaps sorry for his broken finger. With his face pressed into the fabric of the thug’s well-tailored sports coat, he hugged him back - he just wanted the fucker to leave with as little fuss as possible.

It was only when he tried to break away from the awkward hug that he found that it wasn’t a hug at all.

The hand on the back of his head pushed his face harder into the man’s chest, and Stan struggled to breathe. He dropped the folder and punched and clawed at the strong arms restraining him.

He tried to bite, but his mouth was so tight against the other man’s chest that he couldn’t open it wide enough.

Finally, he tried to scream but couldn’t.

What a fucking way to go!

He felt death start to take him, and Stan Lewinski performed the one act of defiance still available to him.

As the struggling of the old man faded, Andre felt an unpleasant warmth spread over the front of his pants. Cursing, he stayed focused on the task at hand, holding him in the deadly embrace until a full minute had passed.

When it was done, Molenski’s man picked up the body and dumped it unceremoniously in the old office chair behind the counter. As the chair spun lazily into the wall, Stan Lewinski’s unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling, the small smile on his blue lips as unmistakable as the large piss stain on his killer’s pants.

Andre, his face a thundercloud and the front of his wet pants clinging to his legs, bent over and picked up the folder before walking out of the office in an awkward, bowlegged gait.

Molenski’s eyes reflected the burning garage at the back of the lot as his man climbed back into the Mercedes.

“Andre, get in touch with our contact in Traffic Control right now,” he said, without taking his eyes off the tall flames. “Give them the details of that car; I want Ivan and that robot bitch in the Red Room by daybreak. What the fuck is that smell?”