Spotless (26 page)

We were about to leave when Minas looked at the three of us before slamming a big fist against his palm. “Putain, j’ai failli oublier!”
Fuck, almost forgot!

I won’t lie. As I watched him rush down the little staircase again, my first thought was that Minas, indeed, sold weapons the same way he sold burgers, and he had forgotten the little screw that held the weapon’s barrel in place—or it looked like a real screw, but it was only plastic. To my astonishment, I was wrong. When he came back, he was carrying a bunch of black T-shirts wrapped in transparent plastic and a few key chains. He gave one to each of us, and I stared for a few seconds at the T-shirt in
my hands. I wasn’t sure I would wear it since it was XXL and depicted a blood-covered skull in front of an AK-47 bearing Minas’s burger shop logo. The key chain, however, was pretty nice. A small and heavy steel tube engraved with a Jesus. I was starting to understand that Minas liked Jesus very much.

Taking the object from my hands, he gave me a fatherly smile. “Check this out. Ain’t no man gonna rape a Minas girl!”

My eyebrows rose in curiosity as he pressed the sides of the little tube, and a short, razor-sharp blade shot out. “This is so cool—”

Less impressed than I was, March gave our hosts a curt bow. “Thank you both. Minas, it’s always a pleasure to do business with you.”

Ilan helped March put the giant case in the car, but it was so big we had to fold a seat down for it to fit inside. Once everything was in place, I opened the passenger door, but before I could sit, I was stopped by March’s extended hand. I stared at his upturned palm in confusion. “What?”

“I’m sorry, Island. Our arrangement specified that you are not to touch any weapons. I can’t allow you to keep it.”

I gave him the big, sad eyes. “But it was a gift . . . and it’s not like I’m ever gonna use it on you.”

Sad eyes didn’t work—perhaps because he still had to digest Ilan’s little stunt. His hand remained where it was, waiting expectantly. I dropped Minas’s key chain with a sigh and climbed into the car, clutching the T-shirt against me. At least I had that.

TWENTY-TWO

The Bottle

“When it comes to kissing, less is more: if you have no idea what you’re doing,
better not do anything at all
. Be a starfish. Starfish get laid. Except the asexual ones. But this section will be written under the assumption that you are a sexual starfish.”

—Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean,
101 Tips to Lose Your Virginity after 25

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I was getting jaded, but when we reached the tarmac of Coulommiers one hour later, I found it almost natural for us to fly private and depart from some obscure aerodrome in the middle of nowhere. Those were undeniably a safer choice for us, since I couldn’t picture March passing airport security with the huge case he had acquired from Minas: whatever was in there seemed like the sort of paraphernalia even well-bribed customs officers would find difficult to ignore.

I was a little sad to say good-bye to Ilan: I had gotten used to his tranquil presence and the way I always felt so safe around him. I allowed myself to hug him, inhaling his delicious smell of spicy vetiver cologne and tobacco. To my surprise—and perhaps even more March’s—he
returned the embrace, squeezing me with his large hands. I never told March what Ilan whispered in my ear that day, but I’ve always wondered if he could read lips and knew anyway. At the time, I didn’t realize the full meaning of Ilan’s words; I thought he was just teasing me.

“C’est pas à moi qu’il faut que tu t’accroches, ma belle . . .”
It’s not me you should be holding on to, sweetie . . .

After he was gone, we strolled toward a white jet that was a bit longer than the one we had taken to come to France. My review of the paintwork will have to be a little harsher this time: I didn’t like it at all. I mean, what paintwork? Do a couple of black lines drawn along the hull even count? Sorry, G650, you leave me no choice but to fail you.

March noticed my critical gaze. “You seem displeased.”

“Legacy’s paint looked better. This one is too plain,” I observed, stroking my chin like some aeronautics expert.

He laughed. “Aren’t we being a princess. Gulfstreams aren’t good enough?”

“I guess not.” I shrugged with a smile.

Inside the jet, a tall young woman wearing a pair of black leather pants and a nice black-and-white horizontal-striped T-shirt was waiting for us. She had the most incredible flaming red curls, and greeted us with a thick Eastern European accent. “Welcome on board. I am Ekaterina, I’ll be your pilot today.”

I extended a hand to her. “I’m Island, and I’m not really a criminal.” Pointing to March, I went on. “This is March. He, uh—” I stopped as I caught a look in his eyes that suggested I didn’t want to detail his rap sheet to Ekaterina.

She gave me a knowing look. “Don’t worry, I fly and never ask.”

As she said this, I remembered where I had seen those stripes on her T-shirt before. “Is that the Russian army’s T-shirt?”

“Yes,
telnyashka
!” she confirmed, her green eyes lighting up as she proudly slammed her palm against her ample bosom.

“Awesome . . . So you were in the army?”

“No, my brother Vitaly. I stole it from him,” she replied cheerfully. Then, looking at March, she gestured to the large camel seats behind us. “We’ll be taking off in ten minutes.”

He nodded and we settled for a pair of seats facing each other near the plane’s galley. As Ekaterina disappeared into the cockpit, I looked at the small white door with envious eyes.

“Maybe we could ask Ekaterina for a brief visit of the cockpit after takeoff,” March offered, reading my mind.

“Uhm, maybe,” I said, not wanting to let him see how much his suggestion appealed to the child within me.

“Come to think of it, we could say I’m negotiating this for you, after you’ve given me the name of your mother’s contact.”

I huffed as the engines started. “I don’t think your help will be needed, and I’ll tell you when I feel like it.”

His eyes narrowed. March was one tenacious bastard. “As you wish . . . try not to fall asleep during the flight, though. You never know what could happen.”

Remembering the way he had cuffed me to my seat during our previous plane trip, I cracked my neck, deciding not to repeat the incident.

We had been flying for several hours, high above the clouds in a now darkening sky. The snowy and rocky landscape I could sometimes make out through the clouds suggested we were passing over Russia. March had spent a while reading something on his phone and was now busy doing crosswords, his features frozen in an expression of intense concentration. I fought a grin when I noticed the small label stuck to his magazine. He had a yearly subscription to
USA Crosswords Jumbo
under the name of Mr. December.

It wasn’t much, but it made me happy. The fact that he trusted me enough to do what he liked instead of watching me silently like Kalahari’s
resident pigeon felt like a small victory. The pencil that had been hovering over the magazine’s last page went down, and he scribbled a few letters, a self-satisfied smile curving his lips.

“Did you finish the last one?”

He closed the magazine before laying it on the small table between our seats. “Yes. Are you ready to tell me that man’s name?”

I let out a heavy sigh, wondering if he had been thinking about that all along. Probably so.

Since I
was
in a plane headed for Tokyo, and therefore no longer had any excuse to deny him, I spoke. “His name is Masaharu Niyama. He should be around thirty now. He used to live in Kōtōbashi, but I have no idea if he’s still there. I hope he’s not dead.”

March had pulled out his phone and typed something as I explained this. After a few seconds, his eyes skimmed through some data on the screen, and he answered me with a smug little smile. “Don’t worry. Your man is still alive. Masaharu Niyama, thirty-three, unemployed. His personal address is the same as his father’s: 4 Chome-14-4 Kōtōbashi.”

I should have been busy celebrating the fact that I was going to rekindle my old flame and be able to follow Masaharu around again, but I have to admit I had other priorities. “Wait, you have an Internet connection in here?”

March nodded, and I lunged at him, reaching for his phone. “Can I?”

He moved the phone away from my eager hands. “Why?”

“I don’t know . . . to check my e-mails, write to Joy, read the news . . .” I was also thinking of installing Triple Town on his phone and playing it for a while, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Nothing crucial, obviously,” he noted wryly. “Since you seem to enjoy bargaining so much, what would you like to offer in exchange for using my phone?”

Douche alert! There was no mistaking that sardonic smile. I was in for yet another bad time—if I wanted to check my e-mails, anyway. “You know I have nothing—” Well that wasn’t entirely true. There was
a little something that had been nagging since our brief encounter with Étienne at the club, but I didn’t want to play that card yet, as it might come in handy if the situation became desperate.

“Too bad.” He shrugged.

What can I say? I was a poor little geek who had spent almost three days without her laptop or an Internet connection, and notifications were piling up in my Facebook account. “How about this? You can ask any question you want until we land, and I’ll answer! About Masaharu or what Kalahari told me about you . . . anything. In return, I can use the phone whenever I want, and you’ll let me install any app I need!”

The way he looked at me when he handed me that phone . . . the cruel glint in those blue pools. I should have paid more attention instead of reading Joy’s account of her weekend in Southampton and how she had met “Vince-the-cutest-photographer-in-the-world” at the Indian deli down the street. I spent a blissful hour replying to e-mails, building a castle in my Triple Town account, reading the weather forecast, and commenting on my stepmom’s latest blog post. Janice has this vegan cooking blog that no one ever visits, so my dad and I are required to leave comments in order to make her feel better about her contribution to the World Wide Web.

When I placed the phone back in his hand with a grateful smile, his eyes softened, and he gave a gentle, playful tap on the tip of my nose . . . before nuking me. “What did Kalahari tell you about me? Take your time. I’d like to hear absolutely
everything
.”

I felt my heart rate increase and my ears redden.
Oh shit. Everything?
“I . . . she . . . uh . . . Stuff, not much, I guess.”

“What an ugly little lie. Let’s try this again.”

I took a deep, calming breath and told myself that, much like an ice-cold shower, this would be better done quickly and without thinking. “She said you’re her ex, that you helped her buy her beauty salon, that you were nice, but you were the control fairy, and that your cleaning . . .
peculiarity
used to be worse. She said you talked about marrying
her, but that you left her so she could fly on her own, and because you knew you were too controlling. She said you’ve been alone for a long time, that you’re not great at selling yourself to women. She also said—” I swallowed. “That you’re uncircumcised, that—” I buried my face in my hands to conceal my flushed cheeks at that point. “That you were a little too classic in bed, not very adventurous.” I stopped, crimson with embarrassment. I knew there were two topics I had left out, though, and I prayed he wouldn’t ask.

“What a
surprising
amount of details. Measurements, perhaps?” he asked with that unforgiving poker smile of his.

“Yes. I refuse to repeat those,” I confirmed through gritted teeth.

“And I won’t make you.” He nodded. “Is that it? I sense a certain
tension
. As if you had omitted a couple of things you knew would displease me
immensely
.”

He was no longer smiling.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “I know about the scarification on your back . . . about the Lions.”

“And?” he insisted, the dark blue depths of his eyes daring me to lie.