Maelstrom

Chapter 20: I Don't Speak Spanish

I had no idea how many beats my heart skipped at that moment, but it felt like more than was strictly healthy.

"Me?" I asked, knowing how stupid I must sound but unable, for the moment, to think. "Wouldn't it be better to send one of the waitresses instead?"

Stefano lifted one of my hands, then the other, posing me almost like a child would with the doll I was dressed as. He put the tray into my now outstretched hands.

"Probably," he agreed. "But you were requested, and I don't argue with Ivan's guests."

"Actually requested ... by name?" I asked, still hoping to get out of this.

"If your name is 'smokin' Barbie cunt,' then yes." Stefano sounded distracted and clearly pissed off; I hoped his displeasure was directed at the cretins in the balcony and their crude references to a member of his staff, rather than at me. He shook his head and nudged me toward the stairs. "Sorry. Take your break whenever you're finished."

I felt myself wobble a bit and instantly regretted my shoes, my outfit, my acceptance of this assignment, and indeed, my decision to join the New York Police Department in the first place. I straightened and glided over to the stairs with a calm I didn't feel.

"Hi," I nodded to the stern bodyguard stationed at the staircase, a black man about my height, maybe early 30s, with a shaven head and some kind of burn scar on his left cheek. He inclined his head a degree or two in the most economic gesture possible to impart his consent to me continuing up the stairs. For a moment I thought that the visitor's hired muscle might stop me, but apparently some obvious ogling of every visible and suggested inch of my body was enough to satisfy him. My stomach jumped about wildly as I climbed to Alkaev's balcony.

I took in the scene automatically. Mateo stood next to the entrance to the balcony, and it may have been my overactive imagination, but his habitual scowl actually seemed to deepen when he saw me. His feet were spread in the balanced, comfortable stance of a professional, hands lightly clasped in front of him. The visitors' security, a young Latino with rough black prison tattoos whom I now recognized from a mug shot as a low-level thug, stood inside the box near the railing of the balcony, alternately leaning casually against the edge and trying to mirror Mateo's ready-for-anything pose, unable to get comfortable with either.

Alkaev's guests were seated in club chairs situated with their backs to the rail; they saw me the moment I came in, and my effect on them was instantaneous. The very young man closest to me was Alejandro Castillo, third son of Hector Castillo, New York's most well-connected, and protected, drug dealer. The boy sat up straighter in his seat as I entered the room, his lips parting a bit with excitement as he drank me in. I knew from reading the file on his father that Alejandro was technically not old enough for the drink I was about to serve him, but already had a number of particularly gruesome unsolved murders attributed to him.

His companion, the grabby browser from downstairs, was Diego Morales. Disdaining to dress like the businessmen he worked for, even in his mid-30s he still adopted the style of a street dealer in his Saturday night best: dark hair slicked back, low-slung black pants, brilliant white athletic shoes, and a black and gray striped shirt untucked and completely unbuttoned, opened to reveal a lean torso and a single gold chain with an oversized crucifix on it. He had done numerous stints in prison and had a reputation for enjoying the dirty work. His casual slouch deepened when I stepped in the room, and he conspicuously adjusted his package as he crooned his approval.

Alkaev sat on the long sofa against the back wall of the box, leaning with his arms stretched along its back as though nothing could be more relaxing than chatting with a couple of violent criminals and their probably trigger-happy security. I was amazed by his aloof calm, until I remembered that he was one of them.