Chapter 3
T he second time Dexter met Lainey was no less memorable.
“Sugar,” she called as they were about to pass each other on the sidewalk, she coming home, he going out.
For a moment he was so befuddled he thought she was asking for a kiss. His lips almost puckered before realizing no person in her right mind would call out “sugar” on the sidewalk in demand of affection. The woman was bizarre, but not that bizarre, was she?
“Excuse me?” he said. He stopped short, which in itself was irritating. Dexter was a person who walked with purpose, always. Definitely not one to meander. He knew exactly how long it took to get to work, had it prescribed down to the nanosecond, and there could be no delay. Except now there was, in the form of his fellow house dweller.
“Sugar.” She reached behind her to give the cart she was hauling a little pat. “Fifty pounds of it. Along with some lettuce, because I could feel scurvy settling in. It’s not only a pirate disease. Something to keep in mind. And that’s my neighborly advice to you for the day. You’re welcome.”
And then she kept walking, leaving Dexter to stare after her in openmouthed stupefaction. “You’re not going to eat fifty pounds of sugar, are you?” he called.
“Obviously no,” she returned without looking back.
He remained staring after her, mind now whirring. If she wasn’t going to eat it, what did she intend to do with it? Sugar art? Was there such a thing? Bait rat traps? He shuddered, dearly hoping that wasn’t what it was for.
When he realized how long he’d been standing in the middle of the sidewalk, mouth ajar, he snapped his jaw shut, faced forward, and marched with renewed purpose. He was going to be late. The Russians wouldn’t like that.
“You are late. I don’t like that,” were his boss’s greeting words. One of his bosses. Really, they were all his bosses. Sometimes Dexter thought the only reason they kept him around was to make themselves feel superior to each other by seeing who could order him around more.
“My neighbor,” Dexter said, with a small shake of his head. They were certain to understand neighbor disputes because none of them could get along with their neighbors. He would say they couldn’t get along with anyone outside the family, but no one within the family seemed to be able to get along, either.
Yuri, one of the brothers, made that Russian sound in the back of his throat that could either express disgust or affection. Dexter was fairly certain it wasn’t affection, but he didn’t know if the disgust was for him or on his behalf. He chose to believe the latter, which was exhibit four thousand in why he still got along with The Russians.
“Big meeting today. Big,” Yuri said, his fingers rasping on his stubbled chin. All of the Russians could grow hair faster than kudzu, another way Dexter was different. His hair grew in an orderly fashion, like everything else on his body. Yuri let the last word hang expectantly. Beeeg. So dramatic, The Russians.
“We’re ready,” Dexter assured him.
Yuri quirked a dubious eyebrow at him. If he weren’t at work and expected to be busy, he could sit and study them for hours. The things they could do with a flick of expression, better than any actor on a stage. “Yes? You sound sure for a man who was late today.”
Dexter didn’t remind him it was the first time he’d ever been late. In fact he didn’t say a word, merely maintained eye contact that somehow worked as reassurance. Most of what Dexter did for The Russians was to put out fires, and most of those fires were of their own making. Some of those fires didn’t even exist outside their minds. He was their American reassurance, a sort of cultural ambassador who bridged the gap between their abrupt and overheated passion and the unfathomable—at least to them—temperaments of the Americans who were their clients. They never said as much, of course, but Dexter was aware how much the company had grown under his watchful care. Before him they were seen as too volatile, almost toxic. After his calming presence, they became big players in the restaurant industry, now supplying some of the highest end establishments in the world.
“Should we bring in Sonya, eh?” Yuri asked, revealing his insecurity over the coming meeting.
Dexter’s head snapped up. “No, absolutely not. Whatever you do, do not bring in Sonya.” There were four Popov brothers, Yuri, Maxim, Ivan, and Andrei. Despite their bluster and machismo, Dexter could handle them fine. But their sister, Sonya, was another matter, a complete loose canon under no one’s behest. Worse, she had a thing for Dexter, if one defined ‘thing’ as her predatory desire to use him and cast him away. The thing was, Sonya was a beautiful woman. From his perspective, the brothers were ugly—big, barrel chested, hairy, and brutish, women nonetheless seemed to find them attractive. But Sonya was like some leftover fairy from the Russian ballet. Delicate and shapely with porcelain skin, black hair, and deep blue eyes, she was the stuff of dreams. Or possibly nightmares. The Russians, being The Russians, believed Sonya was their secret weapon, that her beauty could overcome anything and get them entrée into all the places they wanted to be. But once again they failed to factor her extreme unpredictability into the equation. Sure, she could use her beauty to tame men. But she could also use it to punish them, to tease them, to anger them. And when she felt she wasn’t getting her just due, she became pouty and resentful, eventually unhinged, and then all bets were off. No one wanted a knife around when Sonya was in a mood, that was for certain.
Dexter took a breath. “Look, Yuri, we have this, okay? The presentation is solid. Let’s stick to the plan. And part of the plan is to let me have a few minutes to focus on that presentation. Go freshen up, make sure the lobby looks presentable, okay?”
“The lobby, yes,” Yuri said, meandering away with a nod.
Before Dexter joined the company, the family did all business out of their warehouse on the docks, thus furthering the illusion they were in the mob. One of the first things Dexter did was to move them into an actual office and, not content with the cheap 70’s décor, instituted a luxe remodel. Though The Russians had at first objected over the unnecessary expense, it was now their favorite place. On any given day they could be found in the marble and crystal lobby, more often than they could be found in their offices. Dexter thought maybe they saw it as tangible proof of how far they’d come. And, really, it was rather amazing that a family of immigrants now ran one of the premier restaurant supply businesses in the country, a multi-million dollar business spanning two coasts. If Dexter had anything to do with it, they would continue to grow and expand.
With that thought in mind, he opened his laptop and got to work double-checking his presentation. By the time the client meeting rolled around at one, he was ready.
They walked into the conference room in what was likely an intimidating herd. Though it wasn’t his company, Dexter walked in front, the four brothers flanking him in a v-formation. Their secretary had already set everyone up with caviar and blini, another of Dexter’s improvements. Their mother, bless her, liked to serve food to the guests. When Dexter first began, borscht had been on the menu. The smell of beets had been so strong it had been reason enough to move out of the warehouse and into the new office. Switching to the expensive caviar had gone along with the chic new face of the company. Their clients now were downing it like Skittles, but all munching stopped as everyone sat up and faced them.
Dexter tried to see his entourage from the new group’s perspective. Four burly Russians and their Anglo herder, now taking all space in the doorway. “Good afternoon, Gentlemen,” he said, his voice a soothing contrast to the glowering Russians. They didn’t mean to look so cranky, Dexter knew. But whenever there was a client of this magnitude at stake, they became incredibly anxious. And because every emotion for them was first expressed as anger, it was always better if Dexter took the lead.
The necessary introductions were made and hands shaken all around. There were no women in the room and Dexter was disappointed. The Russians did better with a lady in the room. Perhaps because they were equal parts terrified and adoring of their little sister or perhaps because they were softies at heart. Whatever the reason, they tended to unbend easier with a woman around. With all men it would be hard for them to lower their combined guard. Currently they were scowling impressively, causing Dexter to have to be even more congenial. At least none of them was speaking. They told people Dexter did the talking because their English was subpar, but it wasn’t true. Their English might be a bit broken, but it was stellar. The reason they remained quiet was because their manners were subpar, a lesson learned during Dexter’s first month with the company when Andrei challenged a potential client to a wrestling match when the meeting started to go south. From then on, Dexter was in charge of speaking.
After the initial schmoozing was done, Dexter plunged in. With as antsy as The Russians were today, it was best to cut to the chase.
“I take it you’ve had a chance to peruse our catalog. You know what we provide, as well as our reputation for excellence.”
His counterpart spokesperson, Bernard Geldof, leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. A piece of caviar dangled off one of his sleeves, looking like a suicidal fish egg about to take the plunge onto the table. Dexter forced his eyes not to stare at it in suspense, waiting for it to drop.
“Dexter, I’m going to be real with you all. I like a lot of what we’ve seen here today. Your products are excellent, your record for delivery, service and repair are incomparable. You are known for exceptional quality and that is exactly what we’re looking for.” Before Dexter could allow a small smile of triumph, he continued. “But there’s something else your company is known for, a few whispers of volatile, unpredictable behavior. Now, I get that those might be in the past. In fact the rumors I heard were several years old. But our company, Bristol Brothers, is a hundred and fifty year old family company with a pristine reputation. We cater to an ultra-wealthy, ultra-discreet clientele. In this social media age where everything is recorded and wrongs are remembered forever, one whisper or hint of impropriety could ruin that reputation we’ve worked more than a century to build.”
Beside him, The Russians shifted uneasily. Maxim slipped him a note. Sonya? Dexter crumpled it and slid it back. They were not bringing Sonya into this, not if he had breath in his body. He took a breath and pasted on his blandest smile, thankful for the average, everyman face he’d been given. It put people at ease, his lack of extremes. He was just sort of there , and it worked for him.
“Mr. Geldof, I understand. Believe me, I do. I will admit we had a few hiccups years ago when the company was young.” Meaning before I came on board and got things straightened out. “But those years are behind us. I’m confident that no matter how hard you search, none of those rumors will have come from the last five years. And I’m also confident that no more will occur. The Popovs want nothing more than for their business to succeed. Their hard work on the company’s behalf is what should be legendary because they are never not working.” That part was true. The Popov family lived, ate, and breathed their company. It was so closely allied to their identity that he didn’t think the family could survive if something happened to it. “We are professionals, solid and dependable, in every facet of life.” He held eye contact with the man, oozing earnestness and honesty. For him those traits came easily. He had no idea what The Russians were doing at this moment. He hoped not glowering, as they tended to do when trying to look innocent.
Thankfully Mr. Geldof’s gaze remained firmly fixed on him instead of his bosses. “Can you assure me, with absolute certainty, that not one hint of scandal will eek from this company?”
“I’d stake my life on it,” Dexter said.
After a few unblinking beats, Mr. Geldof jutted his hand and they shook.
The Russians kept it together admirably during the signing of the contracts and goodbyes. And then, when Geldof, et. al, were safely out of the parking lot, they let out a combined roar of happiness. Andrei ripped his shirt off while Maxim hopped onto the table and danced a little jig.
“Call Sonya and tell her to bring the vodka. Is time to party,” Ivan called.
Dexter opened a bottle of aspirin and downed two, trying to ward off the coming migraine.