Chapter 11
BOGDAN
Aleksei tries to give me his keys from the ambulance stretcher.
Blood has dried between his fingers. He holds the keyring out as I come through Depot One's gate, pushing against the strap across his waist until the paramedic puts a hand on his shoulder.
“The office,” he says. “Spare set. They didn't get those.”
I close my hand around the keys without pulling.
Aleksei has worked the depot gate long enough to know every driver who brings us trouble.
This afternoon a white dressing covers his left temple, with blood showing through one corner.
His collar is torn. He keeps trying to look past me toward the empty loading bay.
“Let them take you,” I tell him. “We'll look after the yard.”
His fingers open one at a time. The teeth of a key press into my palm, sticky against the skin, and I make myself keep my face still while the paramedic checks his belt.
Aleksei catches my sleeve before the stretcher moves.
“He said to tell you Luka sent him.”
I bend close enough that he won't have to lift his head. “You have. Your pay continues while you're off. Someone will stay with you at the hospital.”
He lets go. I step out of the way, carrying his keys while the ambulance doors close.
Kirill waits beside the dispatch window.
Beyond him, police stand with the driver whose loaded truck was taken from our yard.
The gate stands open with a bent frame, its lower edge scraping the concrete.
A broken pallet lies near the bay. One cardboard carton has split along its seam, showing the stainless-steel corner of a piece of kitchen equipment that never made it onto the vehicle.
The rest of the shipment is gone.
Diesel hangs beneath the smell of wet concrete. I keep expecting an engine to start, somebody to shout for a signature, the work to pull me past what happened here. Nothing moves until a police officer lifts the broken length of pallet clear of the tire marks.
Klim comes around the ambulance as it leaves. He arrived before me, while I was crossing the city from Beacon Hill. His men have the available camera footage ready for the officers. He confirms that an employee is following Aleksei to the hospital, then looks at the keys in my hand.
I put them in my coat pocket. I don't want them dropped among the papers upstairs, where I'll have to hear them every time somebody moves a file.
Kirill leads us past the silent bays. His shirt cuffs are rolled back, and there's dirt on the front of his trousers from kneeling beside Aleksei. At the bottom of the metal stairs, he stops.
“Full roster,” he says. “Nobody was taken from this shift to cover the women.”
I look at him. On Tuesday he warned me about being easy to provoke. Today one of our men left in an ambulance, and he's making sure I understand whose failure he's discussing.
“I know.”
“Then give me something to tell them. They've heard Luka's name. They saw the truck go.”
The dispatcher watches us through her window. Farther along, a man stands with a clipboard held against his leg, waiting for a decision about the work that's still here. They shouldn't have to guess whether I intend to leave them in the yard and settle this over drinks.
“We cover the customer's loss. Everybody stays on pay while the police finish here. I want the gate repaired before the next shift.” I move closer to Kirill. “Then you and I decide how much this costs Luka.”
He goes up the stairs ahead of me.
In the office, the freight manifest lies open on the scratched desk. Kirill has circled the stolen load with a pen so hard that the page beneath is dented. I take off my coat and hang it over the back of the chair, keeping Aleksei's keys inside the pocket.
Through the wired glass, the empty bay looks smaller than it did from the yard. On paper the load is replaceable. I can transfer enough money to cover it before dinner. That calculation leaves out the blood on a man's hand as he holds out the keys he managed to keep.
The replacement authorization is clipped behind the manifest. I sign it and pass it to Kirill.
Our customer has a restaurant opening to prepare for.
He entrusted the equipment to my company, and I won't make him beg for money while I settle a fight he never agreed to enter.
Kirill sends the authorization downstairs, then returns to the desk.
I go to the small sink in the corner and wash until the water runs clear. The soap catches in the crease beside my ring. I turn the stone inward, working beneath it with my thumb, and have to stop myself from scrubbing hard enough to hurt.
Kirill puts another sheet beside the manifest. It lists the freight brokers who place work with us and with Luka's people. Some rent space from him. Some bring him customers because he offers a cheaper price. Several like to have my name available when their own agreements stop being respected.
I dry my hands and read the list.
“The men who did this first,” Kirill says. “They're moving our cargo while we're looking at paper.”
“Klim has men finding the truck.”
“I want them frightened to unload it.”
I want the same thing. I want the man who struck Aleksei brought through the gate with both hands where I can see them. My shoulders ache with the effort of staying in this room while somebody drives our stolen truck with my company name painted on its doors.
Then I reach the name of the broker who keeps finding Luka more work.
“Devon still uses our overflow bays?”
“Every week.”
I pull the sheet closer. Devon introduces himself at business dinners as though all his money comes from knowing which truck is available. When a customer refuses to pay, he remembers that Kirill does more than manage dispatch. He likes the benefit without having to say what he's buying.
My phone vibrates against the desk.
Luka's name fills the screen. I answer on speaker, leaving the phone between the manifest and the broker list.
“Your shipment can come back,” he says. “A share of the depot collections and the club money. We could settle it tonight.”
Kirill plants both hands on the desk. I lift one finger, and he stays quiet.
“Send the truck back with the man who hit Aleksei.”
Luka laughs through his nose. “After Gilt & Gallows? Quarter past seven, owner's arrival. You should have time for me afterward.”
Klim looks up sharply. I keep my eyes on the phone, feeling the wet edge of my shirt cuff cool against my wrist.
I'm due at the smaller club for a private preview this evening.
The guests have invitations with the event time.
My own arrival is a separate arrangement for the staff.
Tessa's name doesn't appear on it, but last night someone photographed her through a fitting screen while she could still see her guard.
This morning those things occupied different parts of my attention. Luka has brought them close enough to make me want to break the phone.
“You'll get no share,” I say. “Stay away from my clubs.”
“You'll want an arrangement once you've paid for this.”
He ends the call.
For a few seconds I stare at the dark screen. My pulse beats in the hand resting beside it. I imagine his face when he hears that I'm covering the customer's loss, then the other face he might make if I gave him what Kirill wants.
Klim opens a file on his phone and places it on the desk.
“Fern's movement sheet. That wording is hers.”
The page lists tonight's deliveries, the photography slot and the staff call. Near the bottom is my surname beside the arrival time, followed by Owner's arrival. It's the version Fern sent to the vendors working the preview. Klim shows me the copy received by our office.
Anyone on that list could've passed it along. Luka already told me he pays an event worker for information. Seeing my evening printed in front of me makes that boast harder to dismiss, but it still doesn't give me a name.
“Keep that version for the inquiry,” I tell Klim. “Change tonight's arrangements. I won't attend.”
He takes the phone back. The event can go ahead with the club's guards and checked guest list while my private plans stay out of the vendor copy.
Cancelling my appearance won't recall the sheet already sent.
Luka still has the information it contains, and I want to know what else was on the pages that went before it.
I look down at Devon's name again.
He's the easiest of Luka's supporters to reach because he never ignores my calls. When he answers, there's cutlery in the background and the soft interruption of someone asking him a question. His lunch continues for another few seconds before he realizes Kirill is here too.
“Luka's men took a load from my yard,” I say. “Aleksei's in an ambulance. You brought Luka three accounts this month.”
The cutlery stops.
“I arrange freight, Bogdan. I didn't know anything about this.”
“You do now. You won't use my yards while you're paying him.”
“I've signed for Monday's delivery,” Devon says. “The customer's paid. I can't lose that booking over your fight.”
Kirill turns the list toward me, resting his finger on Devon's regular slot. The next load will need our overflow space. Devon knew that when he put work through Luka, expecting us to keep making room for him afterward.
I watch Kirill listen. He's standing straighter than he was at the foot of the stairs. He knows exactly which requests Devon expects him to approve before the weekend, including the ones no shipping form records.
“Give me until tomorrow,” Devon says. “I need to make calls.”
“Until five,” I tell him. “Send Kirill your withdrawal from Luka's next booking. Until he has it, nothing new comes through us.”
I end the call before he can ask whether friendship ought to buy him another hour.
Kirill takes the list. There's work for him on it now, something he can begin while Klim follows the truck. He circles two more names and checks his watch. I recognize the small return of appetite in his face. Before he reaches the door, he's already calling the first number.
“No visits to their homes,” I tell him. “Speak to the men taking his money. They can decide what it costs them.”
He nods and leaves with the paper.
I sit at last. The chair settles beneath me with a complaint from one of its wheels. My mouth tastes stale, and I drink from the bottle of water beside the manifest, letting the coolness ease the soreness in my throat.
Klim remains by the window. Down in the yard, an officer is speaking to the driver. The open space where the truck stood hasn't changed.
“Keep Matvei with the women,” I say. “Add cover for the travel and the late finishes. Bring in relief. Nobody does a second shift half awake.”
He notes it. I approve the cost while he stands there, including another car for the separate journeys home. Finding a lost load won't occupy every man I have. I won't let Luka choose who goes unprotected while I answer him.
Klim steps into the corridor to make the arrangements. I call Tessa before I can decide that telling her would spoil the rest of her afternoon.
She answers with a rustle of fabric close to the phone.
“Please tell me you're about to buy fifty capes.”
For the first time since I reached the gate, I almost smile. “Only if you deliver them.”
“That's a very expensive service.”
Her voice makes me lean back, wanting more of it.
I picture her at the club's fitting table with her phone held against one ear, trying to keep a piece of cloth from sliding off her lap.
Last night she gripped my sleeve while Alison examined that photograph.
Today she's making something somebody will wear to a party.
I don't want to put another frightening thing beside her work. The thought lasts until I see the blood-dark corner of Aleksei's dressing again.
“Luka's men stole a truck from Depot One,” I tell her. “One of our guards was hurt. He's getting care. I'm all right.”
The fabric stops moving.
“Were you there?”
“I arrived afterward. He also quoted an event sheet with my arrival time for tonight. I've cancelled that appearance. Klim's adding to your escorts.”
She takes a breath I can hear through the connection. I wait, looking at the coat that holds Aleksei's keys.
“Does he know where Peggy and I are going?”
“He has information from the events. We don't know who gave it to him. I'll have Klim go through the work schedule with you both before you leave today.”
“All right.” Her voice softens. “I wish you were here.”
I close my eyes for a moment. She could ask about the money or whether I intend to kill somebody. Instead she wants me beside her, among the pins and the half-finished costumes. I want it so badly that the office chair feels wrong beneath me.
“So do I.”
“Call when you're finished. Even if it's late.”
“I will.”
When we hang up, I keep the phone in my hand. I can still hear her asking whether I was there. She needed that answer before she could think about the rest, and the knowledge leaves me reluctant to stand.
Klim returns with confirmation of the extra cover.
I give him Tessa's question and send him to review the upcoming jobs with both women.
He'll compare the vendor sheets with their actual bookings.
The print Alison collected last night remains a separate inquiry, without an answer we can safely attach to today's caller.
Before five, Kirill comes back upstairs with Devon's written withdrawal. The broker has cancelled his next booking with Luka and asked to keep Monday's slot at our yard.
I read the message twice. One cancelled booking won't pay for the truck, heal Aleksei or make the other men on that list abandon a profitable arrangement. It does give Kirill an answer to carry downstairs.
He waits beside the desk while I put Devon's message with the freight manifest.
“And his slot?” he asks.
“Keep it. If he follows through.” I slide Devon's message back to him. “Call the next one.”