Tell Me a Story

Chapter 19

"She what now?"

"There is no book club."

I stared at the folder Anton slid across the pub table. Inside were printouts of every online forum, club, and chat in which Red was involved. The topics varied only slightly, all with one primary theme: mind control.

"Uhhh...should I be concerned that my roommate is obsessed with mind control? Obsessed doesn't even seem like a strong enough word here. Please tell me she hasn't had any disappearing roommates."

"No, no roommates."

I scanned the documents some more while I sipped on my Hefeweizen.

"What's all the CIA stuff?"

"Ah, yes. She is most obsessed with 'secret' CIA project. Monarch."

I thought of the butterfly paintings on the wall. The ones that looked like they were melting.I tensed up.

"Monarch?"

"Yes." Anton leaned in and smiled. "She is conspiracy theorist."

I instantly relaxed.

"Oh, so I live with a nut job."

Anton leaned back in his chair, popping an onion ring in his mouth, and shrugged. "Maybe so. But, harmless nut job."

"Anything in this folder about her obsession with Disney movies?"

"Is part of the theory."

I flipped through the papers and made a note to look up some of this stuff when I got home. Or, if I was feeling especially daring post happy hour, I could ask Red to explain it.

"Hey, do you think you could check something else out for me?"

"Of course, kotik."

"George, the rink owner."

Anton paused, his hand hovering over the plate of onion rings. "Why?"

"I'm just curious."

"About?"

"Why so many questions? You are usually happy to have an excuse to hack into things for me."

"You do not work for him. There is no connection. So, you must have reason."

"I think he may have been, he may still be, involved in some bad stuff."

"But why does this matter to you?"

There was no sense in trying to argue with Anton. I learned long ago that debates were not his thing. I didn't want to tell him everything, but it couldn't hurt to tell him about the agents. I didn't have to tell him that it was who George was involved with that I was really interested in.

"The DEA and IRS showed up at my door the other day, asking questions about George. I'm just curious to know what was going on under my nose while I worked there."

Anton sat staring at me for a moment. "I will look. But only for you. You should not be getting involved and sharing things that do not affect you. Boltun – nakhodka dlya shpiona."

"What?"

"Is nothing. Just something we say."

"Well, that's helpful."

"Well, you learn Russian and you will know."

"Hey, I've been working on it. Some of us aren't geniuses," I said, throwing a balled up napkin at him.

"Yes. Good thing for me."

We left the pub, Anton walking me the three blocks to my apartment, despite having scored a parking space just outside. I told him I could go alone, but in some ways he was very old fashioned. You wouldn't know it to look at him, stern bearded face and dark brooding eyes, but he was the most chivalrous man I'd ever known.

"Well, as much as you don't care for Eli, you two sure agree on not letting me go anywhere alone," I joked.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Eli doesn't let me walk home alone from anywhere either." Anton stayed quiet and for a moment I thought I could hear him grumble. "Let me know what you find out?"

Anton nodded and waited for me to get the door to my building open before heading back up the street. 

As I headed into the elevator, I pulled out my phone and pulled up my translation app.

Boltun – nakhodka dlya shpiona.

Literal - a chatterbox is treasure of a spy. 

Or, in more familiar terms, "loose lips sinks ships".