“I’m sorry,” he said humbly. He tried to mop it up but ended up just spreading it around into a sticky puddle. The bartender hurried to clean it up with a towel and refill my wine.
I thanked the bartender and turned to the fellow next to me. I might have guessed. Of course, it was the bodyguard. Still dressed in black with “henchman” written all over him. But he looked truly miserable and against my better judgment, I gave him a sympathetic look.
“Alright there?”
His eyes were bleary and his face was tearstained. “Yes,” he said, nodding as if to convince himself. It came out “yesh” and I realized he was far drunker than he seemed. No wonder the bartender was cutting him off.
“Sure about that?” I asked.
“No,” he admitted. “My boss just died. It was a very good job, the best I ever had. Now I am unemployed.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I told him in a consoling tone. “I’m sure you’ll find something even better.” I slipped off the barstool to find another seat, but he grabbed my wrist. Instinct flared, and I very nearly flipped him onto his back and drove a barstool leg into his eye, but I resisted the impulse. He was no threat to me. He was just sad and drunk and more than a little pathetic. He had no idea who I was, I realized. He just needed somebody to talk to and I was the most convenient ear.
I sighed and remounted the barstool. The bartender gave me a questioning look from down the bar, but I shook my head, waving him off.
“Please stay,” the bodyguard pleaded. “Just for a little while. I buy drinks.” He gestured towards the bartender, who walked up looking distinctly displeased.
“Water for both of us,” I said firmly. “Big glasses. And maybe something to eat.”
“Of course, madam,” he said. He filled two huge tumblers with water and even a little ice. He set them in front of us and produced a bowl of mixed nuts. He edged away again, but he kept an eye on things, wiping out glasses that were already spotless. It was sweet. I mean, how was he to know I could have smashed a bottle of Grey Goose and slashed both their jugulars in less than ten seconds? He saw a big guy who was on the verge of losing control, pushing his attention on a much smaller, much older woman and drew the logical conclusion that I might need an assist. I had long since given upbeing frustrated by that.Being underestimated is your superpower, the Shepherdess had always told us.
I settled more comfortably onto my stool and waited. It didn’t take long.
“My name is Grigory,” the bodyguard said, extending his hand. It was meaty and clammy, two of my least favorite things, but I shook it anyway.
“Bianca,” I told him.
“That is beautiful name,” he said, tearing up again.
“So, how long did you have your job, Grigory?” I asked.
He shrugged. “A few years. Before this, I was a policeman in Sofia.” Bulgarian after all, then.
“Why did you leave?” I asked him.
“I did not like the work. Too many drunks.”
“Pot, kettle,” I murmured into my Shiraz.
He didn’t hear me. He was too far gone into his story. “So I went to work in private security instead. I am bodyguard to very rich man,” he said, puffing out his chest and thumping it.
A piss-poor one, but far be it from me to criticize. I took another sip. “Your English is very good.”
“My boss, he liked to speak English. He was Bulgarian, like me, but he liked the English.” He subsided then into a few remarks in his native tongue that seemed tinged with bitterness. My Russian is dead fluent, but I’d never learned Bulgarian. Why bother? Nobody speaks Bulgarian except Bulgarians and most of them know a second language anyway.
“And now he’s dead,” I prompted.
“Yes.” He leaned close, blowing boozy breath into my ear. “On this ship. He is there,” he added, pointing down.
“Hell?”
He snorted, but whether out of shock or to cover a laugh, I couldn’t tell. “The morgue. Although hell, this is possible too. Who knows what happens after we die.” He sobered a second, holding his head sideways as if thinking hard had thrown him off-balance. That should have been my cue to leave, but I realized this tipsy lout was giving me the perfect chance to do a little digging. The crew was keeping Lazarov’s death under wraps for now, and as far as we knew, nobody had been questioned. But we had no way of knowing how much they suspected about the cause.
“How did he die?” I asked.
Grigory’s face puckered. “He had big heart attack and drowned in the bathtub.”
“Wow,” I said, raising my brows in a stab at surprise while inside I did a little fist pump. “That’s terrible.”