Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (6 page)

She worked at a long table with computers and processing devices from end to end—when all of the equipment was running, it threw off enough energy to heat a North Sea oil rig. To make matters worse, the old radiator beneath the table whistled like a teakettle, and the shutoff valve had been broken off. It was in the low forties outside, but the temperature in her apartment was over eighty. She kicked the radiator with her foot. “Such a waste of money,” she complained.

She entered a few final commands and then waited for the processor to catch up with her instructions. “Finished. Finally.” Her stomach rumbled. Her cotton blouse was unbuttoned. She looked down at her exposed midriff and saw her stomach muscles undulate. She stamped out her cigarette in an ashtray, walked over to the thirty-year-old Frigidaire refrigerator, and opened the door. A plate of cherry blintzes was covered with Saran Wrap. She picked one of them up with her hand and ate it while she walked around the small apartment. She was licking the sticky cherry filling off of her fingers when someone knocked on her door.

“Who the fuck is that?” She wondered if her neighbor was drunk enough to confront her, but then she heard two successive grunting sounds coming from their apartment, confirming that they were still in bed . . . or perhaps on the kitchen table.

She tied the bottom of her blouse into a knot to somewhat cover her bra. She unlocked the door and opened it without checking to see who was there.

Marat Vetrov stood on the other side of the door holding a paper bag. “You don’t ask who it is? What if I was here to rob you?”

“I’m not afraid. Besides, I can kick your ass.” Anya was a strong woman with muscular shoulders and arms.

“You look very intimidating with jelly on your face.” Vetrov was a giant. He was thick and round. His face was covered with black stubble. His accent was heavy Russian, like Kozakova’s.

“So?”

“You’re eating week-old blintzes?” he said.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Yeech.”
He made a sour face. “You’re going to kill yourself with the shit you eat. You don’t know how to cook?” He pushed past her and set the paper bag down on the kitchen table. “Pastrami sandwiches. You think you can make some coffee?” The sounds coming from her neighbor’s apartment grew louder. “What the hell is that? The Russian fleet is in?”

“They fuck all day and night. I think they’re taking some kind of love potion. I’ve never heard anything like it.” Kozakova locked the door and turned toward Vetrov. She rubbed her eyes. The knot at the bottom of her blouse opened, revealing her bra and ample cleavage.

Vetrov winked at her. “It doesn’t give you ideas?”

“I’m writing computer code at two o’clock in the morning. You think this makes me think of sex?”

“Apparently nothing makes you think of sex. You exercise and you write computer code. As far as I’ve seen, you have no other interests.”

“I’m disciplined.” She began to re-tie the knot in her blouse and then stopped. “I’m not worried about being modest. It’s too hot in here. The landlord is an idiot—the heat is on twenty-four hours a day.” She took two glasses out of the kitchen cabinet and filled them with instant coffee and hot tap water.

“You have to boil it, moron,” Vetrov said in disgust. He spilled the two glasses of coffee into the sink. “Let me do it. Eat your sandwich. I just came from the all-night deli; it’s still warm.”

Kozakova sat down without hesitation. She had the sandwich unwrapped and in her mouth in seconds. “You’re a good friend, Marat,” she said while she chewed. “Don’t think for a moment that we’re going to bed. I’m too tired.” The volume of her neighbor’s love noises had built to an earsplitting crescendo. “I’ve got to find a new apartment.”

“How’s the pastrami?”

“Stringy, but tasty.”

Vetrov opened the refrigerator. He examined the plate of blintzes and then threw them into the trash. “You’re welcome.”

Kozakova heard the sound of something falling into the trashcan, but wasn’t paying attention. She was thinking about the program she had just written and was relieved to be finished with illegal work. “For what?” She finally turned and looked into the trashcan. “You threw out the blintzes? I just had one—they’re still good.”

“You’re hopeless.” He stared at the dented saucepan he was going to use to boil water. “I don’t have the patience for this. Have you got some vodka?”

“Vodka I have.” She stood and walked to the cabinet. She returned with a full bottle of Putinka Vodka.

Vetrov’s eyes sparkled. “Putinka?
Very nice.
Where did you get that?”

“I buy it online. I can’t drink the crap they sell in the American liquor stores.” Kozakova broke the seal and poured half a glass for each of them. She lifted her glass and toasted,
“
Budem zdorovy.”

“Yes, he concurred. “Good health.” He took a big swallow and savored the vodka as it coated his tongue and ran down his throat. “This is heaven. It’s expensive?”

“Expensive? No. It’s half the price of that goose shit everyone else drinks.”

“So what were you working on?”

“Security codes.”

“What kind of security codes?”

“Better you don’t know.”

“You’re such a bitch. Who brings you meals when you’re locked away in your apartment like a slave all night?”

Kozakova gnawed through the pastrami sandwich as if it were kindling being fed through a wood chipper. She looked at him pointedly. “If I don’t tell you, it’s for your own good.”

“Yeah, fuck you, Anya.”

She finished the last bite of her sandwich and drained the contents of her glass. “Don’t make such a sad face. I changed my mind; I’ll give you sex.” She stood and walked behind Vetrov. She caressed his neck with her long fingernails. “You showered today?”

He cursed her with his eyes. “Of course I showered. You think I’m an animal?”

“Give me a minute, sexy man, I’ll go wash up.”

Vetrov waited until he heard the bathroom door close before he jumped out his chair. The computer screen was still filled with code. He inserted a flash drive into the USB port and copied Kozakova’s program. He was not her intellectual equal, but like her, he was an engineer. Alone, back in the solitude of his apartment, he would be able to decipher her genius and make it work to his advantage. He withdrew the flash drive just as the bathroom door latch clicked open.

“I’m ready,” Kozakova called to him. “Come into the bedroom, Marat, and bring the vodka.”

He slipped the flash drive into his back pocket and buttoned it for good measure. He picked up the vodka bottle and took another drink. He felt himself stir as he swaggered toward her bedroom.

I
woke up in a great mood. I was happy. As was recently the case, I was ravenous. Brilliant sunshine streamed through the window, and my lover was lying next to me in bed. The air was filled with the wonderful aroma of Ma’s sauce. They’re not kidding about the appetite thing. I was in my fourth month, and my hormones were out of control. I felt as if I could eat twenty-four hours a day. I still could not understand why I didn’t weigh three hundred pounds.
God is good, my friends. God is good.

It dawned on me (right after I drooled from the aroma of Ma’s sauce) that I didn’t live at home with my mother any longer. Ma’s sauce had an incredible bouquet. I can still remember standing in the kitchen as a child and marveling at the incredible food that she was preparing. It was impossible to forget.

But if Ma wasn’t in the kitchen, who was?

I pulled back the sheets. “Huh?” I was wearing a red apron and . . . well, that was about it. I looked around for my slippers, but they were missing. In their place was a pair of cherry red pumps. This was not a modest pair of shoes. They had platforms and spike heels. They were man-killer shoes, the kind a woman wore when she had romance on her mind. I checked the label—they were Manolo Blahnicks. Wow, this really was an outstanding morning.

I slipped into them and stood up. I examined myself in the mirror. The apron covered my baby bump, but boobs and ass were poking out everywhere. I checked to make sure that Gus was still asleep. He was.
Idiot,
I thought,
do you have any idea what you’re missing?
Gus was definitely going to be mad when he learned what he had missed. I was dressed for one thing and one thing only, but as mentioned, the Hunger God was in command, so instead of jumping on Gus and riding him like a thoroughbred at the Belmont Stakes, I spun on those spike heels and made a beeline for the kitchen.

“Ma? What are you doing here?” My mother was at the kitchen counter. She looked just as I remembered her when I was a little girl. She was grating Romano cheese. She turned to me with a big smile on her face, wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, and ladled a spoon of sauce from the pot.

“Taste it, my beautiful, pregnant girl.” She held the sauce under my nose for a moment and allowed the aroma to waft through my nostrils. The aroma was exquisite—my knees began to buckle. I couldn’t wait any longer. I opened my mouth and tasted it. The flavor of Ma’s sauce was so incredibly delicious. I let it sit on my tongue, savoring every incredible nuance: the sweetness and the perfectly seasoned goodness.

“Oh my God, it’s
so
good.”

Ma pointed to a loaf of Italian bread. I tore off a chunk, dipped it in the sauce, and stuffed it into my mouth.
Jesus, I think I just had an orgasm.
I had sauce all over my face. I looked like an infant who had just attempted to feed itself for the first time.

“That’s it, enjoy, honey,” Ma said.
“Mangia.”
She smiled robustly. “By the way, Stephanie, what the hell are you wearing?”

“I don’t know.” I was too busy stuffing my face with fresh bread and sauce to care. “Ma, you still make the best sauce in the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to cook as well as you do.”

“No worries, child,” she said, looking me up and down. “With a body like that you can order take out. I don’t think Gus will mind.”

Sauce dripped into my cleavage. “Oh Christ, look at me. I look like a pig.” I looked up with a silly grin on my face. “Ma?” Ma was gone.

I looked around. Gus was standing at the counter behind me. He was naked and wrist-deep in chop meat. He was forming a meatball and smiling a devilish smile.

He motioned for me to come closer. “I’ll show you how to cook.”

“Like that? No way. Put your boxers on.”

He extended his chop-meat-encrusted hand toward me. “We all have our methods. Come on. It will be fun.” I got closer. He gave me a little kiss on the lips.

“You understand that we can’t serve this food to anyone else.”

He looked around and shrugged. “I don’t see anyone from the Board of Health, do you?”

“You’d better be careful before you dip your salami in that sauce.”

“My salami is just fine.”

Oh God . . . yes, I know.
“All right. You win,” I said, capitulating. “What do you want me to do?”

Gus didn’t respond with words. He poured olive oil on my hands and began to gently massage them until my hands were completely coated.

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh. You have to lubricate your hands if you want to do a good job on the balls. It’s my trade secret.”

I laughed so hard that I snorted. He worked my hands firmly, applying pressure, and working olive oil around my fingers and joints.
That feels so good.
“Hey, this isn’t one of your perverse little fantasies, is it? Because there’s no way that I’m going to play choke the chicken next to all this fresh produce.”

“You really are nuts.” Gus laughed and began to work the olive oil around my wrists and up my arms. I closed my eyes and embraced his touch.

“You’re one hell of a cook, Gus Lido.” His hands were up around my shoulders. He began to massage the back of my neck.

“Okay,” he said. “Get in front of me and put your hands in the chop meat.”

Really? I’m all hot and bothered. He expects me to cook? Now?
I felt Gus’ warm breath on my neck as he stepped behind me and put his arms around me. “Hey, is that a
braciole
in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

He laughed. “I’m not even standing at attention.”

God bless him,
he wasn’t
.

“Cook,” he commanded. I felt his warm, oil-covered hands under my apron, massaging my belly. “I love you. I can’t believe that we’re going to have a baby together.” He kissed me on the neck. I felt him nuzzling my cheek.

I felt warm and tingly all over. My body went limp in his arms. “Take me back to bed. I don’t think I have the strength to stand.” I turned and kissed him full on the lips.

“You are in bed.”

“What?”

“You are in bed.”

My eyes snapped open. I was in still in bed and covered to the neck with the comforter. I was drenched in sweat and my heart was pounding. “You mean that I was—”

“You were dreaming, Stephanie.”

Oh damn!
“It felt so real.”

I had always been a notoriously vivid dreamer, but since becoming pregnant . . . oh dear Lord, my hormones were just running amuck. My dreams were even more intense and vivid. I had actually thought that I tasted Ma’s sauce, and I had been absolutely sure that I felt Gus’ muscular hands on me as he massaged my shoulders and neck.
God, dreams can be such a tease.