White Cat (27 page)

“I didn’t
know
it,” I say.

“It’s wasted on you,” he says, placing his ungloved hand on my shoulder. The hair on the back of my neck rises.

I try to react like I haven’t palmed the last unbroken stone charm he cut out of me and then swallowed it. Maybe transformation work is wasted on me, but sleight of hand isn’t.

I end up taking one of Dad’s old suits out of my parents’ room. Mom, predictably, didn’t throw out any of Dad’s belongings, so all the suits still hang in the back of his closet, slightly out of date and smelling of mothballs, as though they’re waiting for him to return from a long vacation. A double-breasted jacket
fits me surprisingly well, and when I stick my hands in the pockets of the pin-striped pants, I find a crumpled tissue that still smells like his cologne.

I make a fist around it as I follow Anton and my brother out to Anton’s Mercedes.

In the car Anton smokes cigarette after nervous cigarette, watching me in the rearview mirror. “You remember what you’re supposed to do?” he asks as we head into the tunnel to Manhattan.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You’re going to be okay. After this, if you want, we’ll cut you a necklace. Barron, too.”

“Yeah,” I say again. In Dad’s suit I feel strangely dangerous.

The brass front door of Koshchey’s is wide open when we pull up in front, and there are two enormous men in sunglasses and long wool coats checking a list. A woman in a glittering gold dress pouts on the arm of a white-haired man as they wait behind a trio of men smoking cigars. Two valets come and open the doors of the Mercedes. One of them looks about my age, and I grin at him, but he doesn’t smile back.

We’re waved right through. No list for us. Just a quick check for guns.

The inside is packed with people. Lots of them crowding the bar, passing drinks back for people to carry to tables. A bunch of young guys are pouring shots of vodka.

“To Zacharov!” one toasts.

“To open hearts and open bars!” calls another.

“And open legs,” says Anton.

“Anton!” A slim young man leans over with a grin, hold
ing out a shot glass. “You’re late. Better catch up.”

Anton gives me a long look, and he and the other man move away from Barron and me. I push on into the large ballroom, past laughing laborers from who knows how many families. I wonder how many of them are runaways, how many of them slipped out of some normal life in Kansas or one of the Carolinas to come to the big city and be recruited by Zacharov. Barron follows me, his hand pressing against my shoulder blades. It feels like a threat.

Up on the little stage on the other side of the ballroom, a woman in a pale pink suit is speaking into the podium microphone. “You might ask yourselves why we here in New York need to give funds to stop a proposition that’s going to affect New Jersey. Shouldn’t we save our money in case we need to fight that same fight here, in our own state? Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, if proposition two passes in one place, especially in a place where so many of us have relatives and family, then it will spread. We need to defend the rights of our neighbors to privacy, so that there will be someone left to defend ours.”

A girl in a black dress, her brown curls pulled back with rhinestone clips and her smile a little too wide, brushes against me. She looks great, and I have to stop myself from telling her so.

“Hi,” Daneca says languorously. “Remember me?”

I somehow manage not to roll my eyes at her over-the-top performance. “This is my brother Barron. Barron, this is Dani.”

Barron looks between us. “Hey, Dani.”

“I beat him at chess when his school came up to play my school,” she says, embellishing on the simpler cover story we came up with yesterday.

“Oh, yeah?” He relaxes a little and grins. “So you’re a very smart girl.”

She blanches. Barron looks sharp in his suit, with his cold eyes and angelic curls. I don’t think that Daneca’s used to slick sociopaths like him flirting with her; she stumbles over her words. “Smart enough to—smart enough.”

“Can I talk to her for a minute?” I ask him. “Alone.”

He nods. “I’ll get some food. Just watch the time, player.”

“Right,” I say.

He grips my shoulder. His fingers dig into the knotted muscles in a way that feels good. Brotherly. “You’re ready, right?”

“I will be,” I say, but I have to look away. I don’t want him to know how much it hurts for him to act kind now, when none of it’s true.

“Tough guy,” he says, and walks off toward the samovars of tea, and the trays heaped with dilled herring, with fish glistening in the ruby glaze of pomegranate sauce, and with about a million different kinds of piroshki.

Daneca leans into me, presses a blood packet wrapped with wires under my jacket, and whispers, “We got the stuff to Lila.”

I look up involuntarily. The knots in my stomach pull tighter. “Did you talk to her?”

Daneca shakes her head. “Sam’s with her now. She’s really not happy that all we could get in is a pretend gun that Sam is
still gluing together.”

I picture Lila’s sharp-edged smile. “She knows what she’s got to do?”

Daneca nods. “Knowing Sam, he’s overexplaining it. He wanted me to make sure you were okay with reattaching your wires to the trigger mechanism.”

“I think so. I—”

“Cassel Sharpe,” someone says, and I turn. Grandad is wearing a brown suit and a hat turned at a rakish angle, feather pin through the band. “The hell are you doing here? You better have some peach of an explanation.”

Yesterday when we went over the plan again and again, I never thought about Grandad showing up. Because I’m an idiot, basically—an idiot with poor planning skills. Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?

Seriously, what else could go wrong?

“Barron brought me,” I say. “Aren’t I allowed out on a school night? Come on, this is practically a family event.”

He looks around the room, like he’s looking for his own shadow. “You should go on home. Right now.”

“Okay,” I say, placatingly, holding up my hands. “Just let me get something to eat and I’ll go.”

Daneca backs away from us, heading in the direction of the bar. She gives me a wink that seems to indicate the outrageous assumption that I have things under control.

“No,” he says. “You are going to get your ass out on the sidewalk, and I am going to drive you home.”

“What’s wrong? I’m not getting in any trouble.”

“You should have called me after I left you a message, that’s
what’s wrong. This isn’t a good place for you, understand?”

A man in a dark suit with a gold tooth looks over in our direction with a laugh at the familiar story we’re playing out. Bratty kid. Old man. Except that Grandad’s acting crazy.

“Okay,” I say, looking up at the clock. Ten after ten. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” he says, wrapping his hand around my upper arm. I want to pull away from him, but my arm’s been wrenched out of its socket too many times in the last few days. I let him lead me toward the door until I come close enough to the bar to be able to get Anton’s attention.

“Look who I found,” I say. “You know my grandfather.”

From the way Anton’s eyes narrow I’m guessing Grandad isn’t his favorite person. The zinc bar top is littered with shot glasses and at least one empty bottle of Pshenichnaya.

“I just stopped in to see some old friends,” Grandad says. “We’re going.”

“Not Cassel,” Anton says. “He hasn’t had a drink yet.” He pours one for me, which gets the attention of some of the other young laborers. They turn their evaluating gazes in my direction.

There is a burning intensity in Anton’s face, belied by his half smile and the languid way he’s leaning against the bar. If he wants to lead the family, he’s going to have to lead guys like Grandad. He can’t afford to be shown up by an old man. He’s got something to prove, and he’s happy to use me to prove it.

“Take the drink,” Anton says.

“He’s underage,” says Grandad.

That makes the guys at the bar laugh. I throw back the
vodka in a single swallow. Warmth floods my stomach and sears my throat. I cough. Everyone laughs harder.

“It’s like everything,” one of the guys says. “The first one’s the worst.”

Anton pours me another shot. “You’re wrong,” he says. “The second one’s the worst because you know what’s coming.”

“Go ahead,” Grandad says to me. “Take your drink, and then we’re going.”

I look up at the clock. Ten twenty.

The second shot burns all the way down.

One of the guys claps me on the back. “Come on,” he says to my grandfather. “Let the kid stay. We’ll take good care of him.”

“Cassel,” Grandad says firmly, making my name into a reprimand. “You don’t want to be tired for that fancy school of yours.”

“I came with Barron,” I say. I reach across the bar and pour myself a third shot. The guys love that.

“You’re leaving with me,” Grandad says under his breath.

This time the vodka goes down my throat like water. I step away from the bar and make myself stumble a little. I feel heady with confidence.
I’m Cassel Sharpe.
My mouth wants to shape the words.
I’m smarter than everybody else and I’ve thought of everything.

“You okay?” Anton asks, looking at me like he’s trying to figure if I’m drunk. His plans depend on me. I look as blank as possible and hope that it freaks him out. No point in my being the only miserable one.

Grandad tugs me toward the double doors, against the tide of people. “He’ll sleep it off in the car.”

“Let me just run to the bathroom,” I tell Grandad. “I’ll be right back.”

He looks furious.

“Come on,” I say. “It’s a long ride.” On the wall the clock reads ten thirty. Anton’s going to be heading into position, guarding Zacharov. Barron’s probably already looking for me. But how long before Zacharov will show is anyone’s guess. His bladder could be made of iron.

“I’ll go with you,” Grandad says.

“I think you can trust me to piss without getting in any trouble.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but I don’t.”

We head toward the bathrooms, which are near enough to the kitchen that we have to head into the shadowy, windowless area behind the bar. I look over and see Zacharov and a beautiful woman with long honey-colored hair hanging on his arm. The pale red gem on his tie is overmatched by the rubies hanging from her ears. People are declaring their support and shaking his hand, leather glove against leather glove.

There in the crowd I think I see her. Lila. Her hair white under the lights. Her mouth painted blood bright.

She’s not supposed to be here yet. She’s going to ruin everything.

I veer off toward the buffet. Toward her. By the time I get there, she’s gone.

“What now?” Grandad asks.

I pop a rose-flavored
syrniki
in my mouth.

“I’m trying to sneak food,” I say, “since you’re so crazy that you won’t let me eat.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he says. “I see you looking at the clock. No more bull, Cassel. Piss or don’t.”

“Okay,” I say, and walk into the bathroom. Ten forty. I don’t know how much longer I can drag my feet.

There are a few other guys in here, combing their hair in the mirrors. A skinny puffy-eyed blond is doing a line of coke off the counter. He doesn’t even look up when the door opens.

I go into the first stall and sit down on the lid of the toilet seat, trying to calm myself.

My watch reads ten forty-three.

I wonder if Lila wants everything ruined. I wonder if I really saw her in the crowd or if I just conjured her out of my fears.

I take off my suit jacket, unbutton my shirt, and tape the packet of fake blood directly onto my skin, resigning myself to the gluey hair removal I am going to get later when I rip it off. I tug the wire through the inside of my pants pocket, ripping the seam and adding more tape so the trigger’s easy to grab.

Ten forty-seven.

I check for the bottle of puke taped behind the toilet bowl. It’s there, but I have no idea which one of them finally gave in and threw up. I smile at the thought.

Ten forty-eight. I attach the wire to the trigger.

“You okay in there?” Grandad calls. Someone snickers.

“Just a second,” I say.

I make a choking noise and pour out half the contents of the puke bottle. The room fills with the vinegary three-day-old
smell of sick. I gag again, this time for real.

I pour out the other half and carefully return the empty bottle to the tape. Leaning down is the worst. I gag again.

“You okay?” Grandad doesn’t sound impatient anymore. “Cassel?”

“Fine,” I say, and spit.

I flush the toilet and button up my shirt carefully, then pull on the suit jacket but don’t button that.

The door opens and I hear Anton’s voice. “Everyone out. We need the bathroom clear.”

My legs feel unsteady with relief. I open the door of the stall and lean against the frame. Almost everyone has already been chased out by my fake vomiting, but the stragglers and the cokehead are filing past Anton. Zacharov stands at the sinks.

“Desi Singer,” he says, rubbing the side of his mouth. “It’s been a long time.”

“This is a very nice party,” my grandfather says gravely, nodding toward Zacharov, his nod almost a bow. “I hadn’t figured you for politics.”

“We who break laws should care the most about them. We deal with them more than other people, after all.”

“They say that all really great crooks eventually go into politics,” Grandad says.

Zacharov smiles at that, but when he sees me, his smile fades. “No one’s supposed to be in here,” he tells Anton.

“Sorry,” I say, sticking out my hand. “I’m a little drunk. This is a great party, sir.”

Grandad grabs for my arm to pull it away, but Anton stops
him.

“This is Philip’s little brother.” Anton’s grinning, like this is all a hilarious joke. “Give the kid a thrill.”

Zacharov extends his hand slowly, looking me in the eye. “Cassel, right?”

Our eyes meet. “It’s okay, sir. If you don’t want to shake.”

He holds my gaze. “Go ahead.”