Authors: Kay Keppler
The others laughed.
“Seventeen-oh-one,” Johnny Red said, hitting the button on the elevator.
The car arrived, and they all stepped in, shoving their luggage into the small space. Alexei, standing closest to the buttons, hit the button for seventeen.
“This is quite a place,” he said as the car rose.
“I could fall in love here,” said Igor.
“You got to develop some finesse first,” Yakov said.
“I got finesse,” Igor said.
“You got the finesse of a supervisor at a Siberian labor camp,” Yakov said.
“Remember why we’re here,” Johnny Red said when the car stopped at the seventeenth floor and he stepped out. “Falling in love is for the bourgeoisie. The job’s gotta come first. I expect everybody to pull his weight on this trip. You hear me?”
He stopped suddenly, his key card poised above the lock on his door, his nose pointed into the air like a bird dog.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“What?” shouted Yakov, whipping out his Glock and crouching low, as he whirled to face the elevator.
“
That
,” Johnny said, sniffing.
“Where?” shouted Markov, whipping out his Glock and crouching low, like a synchronized swimmer next to Yakov, as he faced the opposite direction down the hall.
Johnny shook his head. “As I honor Lenin, the father of our glorious revolution who struggled to free the masses from their chains of bondage and despair, I can’t believe I brought you amateurs along,” he said in disgust.
“You smell something?” Alexei had seen his uncle sniff the air, and he had not been sent to law school for nothing.
“
Varenikis
,” Johnny said.
There was a moment of silence almost as profound as the one for the broads.
“Where?” said Alexei.
Johnny sniffed. “Downstairs,” he decided.
The five dropped their luggage outside the door of their suite and headed for the stairs, Yakov and Markov shouldering their weapons.
“What kind, boss?” ventured Markov.
“Apple cinnamon,” said Johnny. “Can’t you tell? The crust, as light as a feather, as rich as a Belarus banker. Dusted with cinnamon sugar, grainy and sweet. The filling—apples, tart, softened with butter, sweetened with raisins and honey, brightened with lemon juice, cooked to perfection. The whole thing fried to a golden brown and dunked in sour cream.
That
,” said Johnny Red, east coast mobster and devotee of Russian cooking, “is gorgeous.”
By now the five had reached the sixteenth floor, which contained only two suites. Johnny sniffed.
“Here,” he said, stopping at sixteen-oh-one.
He rang the bell. Waited.
“Come on, come on,” he said impatiently, slapping his hand against his leg.
Just then the door was flung open, releasing a gust of air so warm and moist, so redolent of butter, of sugar, of apple-cinnamon varenikis, that Johnny Red almost swooned. And when he had put out his hand to steady himself and opened his eyes to view this heaven, he saw the Angel of Russia framed in the doorway.
Her hair was a blonde halo, an aura of pale curls fluffed from heat. Her cheeks were pink, flushed with the vigorous beating she’d given her dumplings. Her eyes were the color of the Volga on a stormy day. Her tight white tee-shirt was pulled low, exposing the edge of her lacy red bra on the curve of her breast and the strap over her shoulder. She wore an apron that did nothing to conceal her perfect tan legs.
And, best of all, her face was dusted with flour and she held a wooden spoon in her hand.
“Well, hello, boys,” Baby said, smiling at the five stupefied Russians. “What can I do for you?”
An hour later they were eating out of her hand.
“Here, have another,” Baby said, leaning over Alexei’s shoulder as she reached around him and placed two tender varenikis on his plate. He’d already had six, but he would have eaten a hundred if this beautiful baker of heavenly varenikis would continue to press her voluptuous breasts against his shoulder the way she was doing now. He sighed, letting his head drift toward Paradise.
“Oh, I can’t,” he said weakly, feeling the buckle of his belt press too tightly against the firm, muscled contours of his stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
“You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t try the apricot,” Baby said, her luscious red lips pouting. She reached forward toward the bowl of sour cream, which did amazing things to her chest and caused Alexei almost to pass out from bliss. And then she held the apricot vareniki just an inch from his lips and brought her face down to his.
“Taste,” she said. “This you will love.”
Alexei did, indeed, love.
Johnny Red looked at the sugary remains on his plate with gluttonous satisfaction as Alexei struggled to please the goddess at the table by eating the apricot vareniki that she wanted him to eat.
“You cook like an angel,” Johnny Red said, watching Baby’s breasts with a fascination almost equal to Alexei’s. “Where did you learn to make varenikis?”
“From my grandmother,” Baby said. “Born in Minsk. Raised in Moscow. She cooked for generals. For bishops. For presidents even.”
“Lenin?” Johnny Red breathed.
“Not Lenin,” Baby said. “She was too young for Lenin.”
Johnny Red kept silent. He would ask no more. This angel was here now, cooking the varenikis. For him, Johnny Red. That was what counted.
He licked some crumbs off his plate and glanced up. Baby’s breasts all but spilled out of the lacy red bra over her tight tank top.
“Magnificent varenikis,” Johnny Red said.
“Don’t I know it,” Baby said.
That night in bed Baby warned Big Julie about the Russians.
“There are five of them,” she said. “But only four of them carried guns. The youngest one was sort of sweet.”
Big Julie struggled to come out of the deep post-coital stupor he’d fallen into. What Baby couldn’t do with just her fingers and a rubber band.
“Hey,” he said, opening his eyes on a wave of possessiveness. “Who?” And then after a second to gather his thoughts, “How do you know they got guns? How did you know they was even coming here?”
“The Russians who are after you,” Baby said patiently. “I knew they were coming because one of your guys called when you were out, I don’t even want to know where, you never tell me
nothing
. I told you before but you didn’t listen. I saw the guns when they were eating the varenikis.”
“The Russians were
here?
” Big Julie said, struggling to sit up. “Did they threaten you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I
am
telling you,” Baby said. “
Again.
I made varenikis for them. They liked them.”
“You cooked varenikis for them? You invited them
in?
” Big Julie asked, all memories of exploring fingers and rubber bands vanished. “Are you
crazy?
”
Baby pouted. “You always said, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“But, Jesus. I didn’t mean the Russians.”
“Well, you should have been more clear, then.” Baby turned away, hurt. Her flounce and the way she crossed her arms over her chest
thrust her breasts out in such a way that Big Julie was momentarily distracted.
“Aw, Baby, you know I didn’t mean nothing. What you found out—that was a big help.” Big Julie lost focus. Baby’s breasts—full, round, firm, pink, luscious—called out to him like dessert at the buffet table. He reached out, helping himself to their sweetness.
“What did you tell them?” he asked, his voice a little strained.
“
Nothing
,” Baby said outraged, turning a little so Big Julie could reach better. “But they know you’re here. A couple of them spoke Russian. They thought I didn’t understand.”
“Uh,” Big Julie said, feeling Baby’s warm, taut flesh under his fingers.
Baby arched her back a little. “They said they were staying for a week. So whatever they’ve got planned—” She stopped momentarily, drawing in a breath as Big Julie’s hands found what they’d been seeking. “Whatever they got planned, Big Julie, you should be careful,” she finished on a gasp.
“I’m being careful,” Big Julie said, breathing in her warm freshness, the firm, soft breasts. “See how careful I’m being?”
He slid his hands under the sheet, reaching lower, finding her heat. He raised his head, as a new thought occurred to him.
“You can
cook?
”
Chapter 15
Kenji Hasegawa, a world-famous chef whose last restaurant had earned three Michelin stars and whose current restaurant was fully booked through Christmas, looked down at the blonde girl who was perched precariously on a stool at his stainless steel counter. Why on earth had he let Tanner Wingate talk him into this? But he’d said he’d give this child a cooking lesson, and he would do his best. She was a nice kid, well-mannered and interested. And he’d gotten season tickets to the UNLV basketball games out of the deal, so that was something.
“Have you thought about what we should we make for your birthday lunch, Amber?”
She beamed at him. “This was a total surprise! Thank you
so much
for the lesson. You are totally the
best.
Anything we make will be
awesome
.”
Kenji found himself smiling back. At least she’d be easy to please.
“Well, what do you like to eat?” he asked.
“I like
everything
. Except for totally weird stuff.”
Kenji grinned. “You want to stay away from totally weird stuff,” he agreed.
Amber grinned back. “You’re a sushi chef, right?” she asked. “That’s all fish? Let’s do fish.”
“That will be easy, then. We’ll go to the market to pick out something fresh. What would you like to have with it?”
Amber’s forehead furrowed while she thought. “Potato salad?” she asked. “Like a picnic.”
“Good choice,” Kenji said. “There’s lots of variations with potato salad. What else? Remember, we’ve got the protein and the starch, so now we need a vegetable that adds color to the plate.”
Amber tilted her head at him. “This seems so easy,” she said. “When I’m making up recipes for the vegetable boxes, doing a menu seems really hard. How about cole slaw? That’s green.”
“Cole slaw it is. Do you want birthday cake for dessert? I’m not a baker, Amber, so it wouldn’t be real fancy.”
“Brownies,” Amber said firmly. “With nuts.”
“That’s the menu, then,” Kenji said. “We have a lot of the stuff we’ll need here at the restaurant, but I thought it would be fun to shop. Are you ready to go?”
They went to the natural foods store and bought the chocolate, nuts, and flour. They went to the Indian food store and bought spices. Last they went to a seafood market. Before they drove back to the restaurant, Kenji dug through one of the grocery bags, pulling out a small cellophane package and tearing it open.
“What’s that?” Amber asked, looking at it.
“I got it in the Indian grocery shop,” Kenji said. “It’s green mango candy.”
“Mango,” Amber said. “That’s a tropical fruit, right? Cool.”
Kenji handed a piece to Amber, who unwrapped the morsel and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes widened.
“Juicy,” she said, focusing on the horizon while she tasted. “It’s good. Sweet, but sour, too.”
They got in the car, and Kenji started to drive. “They’ve got a lot of good things there,” he said. “The trick is to learn how to use them. The candy, though, isn’t so hard to figure out.”
Amber giggled.
Back at the restaurant, Kenji handed Amber a big white apron, looping the strings around the girl three times to tie it snugly. But when he gave her even the smallest chef’s hat, it fell down over her eyes. He dug through a drawer and found a clean but worn pink bandana and tied it around Amber’s forehead over the hat, pleating the brim in back to make it fit.
“Now it looks like you work here,” he said, as he tied the bandana securely behind her head.
Amber beamed, feeling the tall white hat towering over her head. “I’m ready to cook,” she said, and Kenji laughed.
“First we’ll make the side dishes,” he said. “Let’s start with the potato salad.”
Hope, dressing for Amber’s birthday lunch, put on her new sundress decorated with butterflies. She brushed her hair and slipped into the new high-heeled sandals that she’d bought with Baby. She pulled on two orange-and-white bangle bracelets and stepped back to look at herself in the mirror.
She looked good. Not that anyone would notice. Not that she cared whether they did or not. She wasn’t dressing to please people. People who liked flirting with everybody were not serious about anybody. She was wearing her sundress because it was Amber’s birthday, and she wanted to do justice to the occasion. And that was all.
Hope almost rolled her eyes at herself as she grabbed the present she’d picked out for her niece and left the house. Who was she trying to kid? People who flirted with everybody might not be serious about her, but she was trying to impress them anyway.
More fool her.