dirty looks
dirty bonds
Eleven
Maxwell
This shit won’t turn out right.
We sat in the back of the car. Oleg drove. Valentina rocked back and forth in the passenger seat, oblivious to the violence around us. We’d caught her up and she didn’t seem sad at the news of her uncle possibly being dead. Granted, it wasn’t her real uncle and she didn’t look like she liked him anyway.
“Where do you want to go?” Valentina looked back at us.
Em watched her. She’d been studying her the whole drive like a science project. This was never a good moment with Em. When she studied, she was wondering about the best way to kill a person.
Valentina smiled at her. “We could go to the Bermuda Triangle?”
Em’s face remained neutral. “Where’s that?”
I gazed at Oleg as he watched me through the rear-view mirror and continued to drive.
“It’s in Old Town Square.” Valentina shook her head. “No. It’s just tourist idiots, big breasted gold-diggers, and football players. We should go somewhere else.”
“I like the idea of Old Town Square,” I chimed in, trying to push the tension out of the car. “My vote will always be for the big breasted gold-diggers.”
Valentina and Em continued to stare at each other. Both surveyed the other with blatant audacity.
“No.” Valentina smiled and turned around. “I have another place.”
I checked for my gun. I’d filled it. Em had a new one with bullets. There’d been weapons all around the castle after tonight’s events. After so many had watched us all try to help catch the men, they seemed to see us as their friends. One man offered the guns.
I’d gotten them, gave one to Em, and did it all before Valentina and Oleg met us. I was sure Oleg knew we were carrying. He stared at my leather jacket as if he could see the piece behind him. He didn’t even glance Em’s way, and she was the one he should’ve been worried about the most.
Valentina turned back around in her seat and directed her attention to me. “Do you play PokémonGo?”
I gave her an odd look. “What?”
“Pokémon.” She flashed her phone in front of me. It had animated characters glowing. “There’s a legendary Pokémon over there. Rayquaza.”
“Good.” I shrugged. “I guess.”
“You two are too serious.” She laughed. “What do you think we should do now? Someone has tried to kill you, right?”
Em nodded.
“So, do we wear a frown?” She fake pouted. “Do we get scared? No. There will be a time when we die, but now is our time to live.”
“And what about if others have died tonight?” Em asked.
“Then, we live even more.” Valentina widened her eyes. “We drink in their memory. Would you want everyone to be crying and sad if you were killed tonight?”
Em’s expression softened. “No.”
“If I die…” Valentina turned serious. “If I die, then you must dance all night long. Don’t you cry for me. I’m okay. But dance and drink and fuck. Fuck a whole lot!”
Em widened her eyes.
“Promise?” Valentina asked.
“I’ve got you,” I said.
“Promise.” Em nodded and appeared to relax a little. “Where are we going then?”
“We are going to my favorite place, Parukarka Park.” Valentina clapped and switched her attention to the radio, messing with channels. “I’m so excited. You’ll love it. You two are so dark. It’ll be right up your alley.”
She moved through channels as if sure of what radio number she was looking for. She’d probably been here tons of times and had certain stations memorized. Most of the channels played classical music. A few blasted some Latin grooves with Spanish lyrics. Pop music played on another. I swore there was some sort of country song on another.
“…bombings continue in New York—"
Valentina continued to switch.
Both Em and I yelled, “Go back!”
Valentina jumped and giggled. “Okay. Okay. The news it is.”
The reporter sounded British. I wasn’t sure what radio news broadcast it was, but I was glad he spoke in English, although some words were hard to understand.
“Several areas in Manhattan, including the Financial District, Upper East Side, and Greenwich Village have been assaulted with violence in shootings. This morning’s recent incident was a bombing in Harlem—Manhattan’s historically African American neighborhood. Since the 1920s, it has been known as a major African American residential, cultural and business center. Today, neighborhood blocks were leveled, hundreds dead, others injured, and thousands homeless—”
Valentina turned it off. “This is sad news.”
“Turn it back on.” Em leaned forward. “I want to hear the rest.”
Valentina didn’t move. “Sasha was busy today.”
Em glared. “I see.”
“You think he did that?” I asked.
“Of course, that was Sasha.” A grim expression fell over Valentina’s face. “He’s looking for you.”
“And what was tonight about?” I asked, since Valentina was in a confessional spirit.
“Sasha is letting Kaz know that he won’t back down. That was war tonight.” Valentina shook his head. “It wasn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?” Em asked.
“If Uncle Igor dies, then Sasha has solidified Kazimir’s win. Everyone in Europe will back my brother in this war. Uncle Igor was loved and feared, but most of all, he was our legend.” Her bottom lip quivered. “He’ll…he’ll be missed.”
“I still want to hear the news,” Em said.
Valentina wiped her face. Tears must’ve left her eyes. She finished and then turned on the radio.
“One of the most celebrated ballerinas of our time was found dead in the presidential suite of the Four Seasons Hotel right in the heart of Prague.”
Valentina reached for the dial.
Oleg smacked it away.
Em and I tensed.
What’s up?
The British reporter continued, “Olesya Pavlova, great great-granddaughter of famous Russian ballerina, Anna Pavlova, had carved her own path, revolutionizing the role of The Dying Swan.”
Valentina frowned for the first time that night and leaned back in her chair. Oleg gripped the steering wheel hard and sped up. I held the edge of my seat to not fall into Em.
“Olesya was discovered in the Four Seasons’ suite this evening. The police are looking into the matter due to Ms. Pavlova being last spotted at an event with Igor Stronz, who has a history of being affiliated with international crime. Authorities are looking into Ms. Pavlova’s death and its possible connection to the early reported shooting at the Igor Stronz event, where several UN officials and world leaders were injured.”
Music came on as the reporter shifted to discussing the weather in different parts of Europe. Oleg clicked off the radio. Valentina said nothing.
Em watched them, and I did the same.
The ballerina was important, that was obvious. But how? And what about the devastation to Harlem?