He nodded morosely and thumped himself in the general region of his heart. “I blame myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not know he has a heart condition. The doctor on the ship says these things can be very quiet for many years. My boss never tells me. Maybe if I know, I can do something.”
“It’s nice that you wanted to save him,” I said.
“This is easiest job I ever had,” he confided. “Best job. The boss, he liked me to show myself a little, let people see the muscles.” He bent his arm and flexed. The muscles were big and taut, but the veins in his throat popped—the sure sign of a dehydrated steroid user. As I had expected, he hadbeen employed for show, and those heavy gym-tortured muscles would be less than useless during a fight. He might look intimidating at first glance, but I’d have wagered cash money that he had clumsy feet and reflexes like molasses on a winter’s day.
He nudged his beefy shoulder into mine, nearly knocking me off my barstool. “I was meant to get bonus. Very big bonus. My boss has very large deal almost finished. Now?” He shrugged. “I get nothing. Is very sad, I was going to open shop for bubble tea in Sofia. You like bubble tea?”
“Love it,” I lied with a smile. I was only half listening anyway. Bells were ringing too loudly in my head. “You must have been a big help to your boss with his deal if he was going to pay you a huge bonus.”
He shrugged. “I watch his back is all.” He laid a finger next to his nose—at least he tried. It landed about three inches off and he poked himself gently in the eye. “You cannot be too safe with Montenegrins.”
I leaned in and pitched my voice low. “Grigory, you can’t say that about people. It’s racist.”
He stared at me a long minute with a befuddled expression on his face, as if trying to process what the words meant or trying to figure out the square root of a prime number. He must have given up because instead of replying, he changed the subject. He shot his sleeve back and showed me a discreet Patek Philippe—vintage, I’d have wagered, and not bought with his own money. “I took this when I was packing his things. I will not be paid, you know,” he added. There was abelligerent expression in his eyes and I think he expected me to take exception to his light-fingered ways.
I tapped the elegant alligator band where it was cutting into the meat of his wrist. “Make sure it doesn’t have an inscription if you plan to pawn it. Watches like that are traceable.”
His mouth went slack and it took him a whole minute to process what I’d just said. “Oh, you are a clever lady.”
I shrugged. “Common sense.” I took another sip, wondering if there was anything helpful at all sloshing around in that brain of his. “Too bad about your boss,” I ventured. “I’m sure his family are going to miss him.”
He shook his head slowly from side to side, like a bear trying to clear away a serious hangover. “These drinks are very good.”
“Yes, they are. So your boss was alone on the ship? No wife or girlfriend?” I pressed. There was nothing subtle about my questions at this point, but Grigory didn’t seem to notice.
“He has no women. No men either,” he added with a leer as he elbowed me in the ribs.
“Careful, Cujo. I bruise easy.”
He threw his head back and laughed, a rough and raucous sound that attracted the bartender’s attention. I rolled my eyes and the bartender stayed where he was. I turned back to Grigory. “Sounds like your boss had a lonely life.”
“He was rich,” Grigory countered. “Rich men can buy anything they need.”
“But not everything,” I said. “ ‘All your money won’t another minute buy.’ ”
He gave me a blank look and I sighed.
“Kansas. ‘Dust in the Wind.’ ” I hummed a few bars and he got excited.
“Yes! I know this song, but I prefer another.” Without preamble, he launched himself into the opening of “Carry On Wayward Son.” The bartender shut him down immediately by whisking away the glasses and giving us a pointed look.
“I’ll handle it,” I told him. I put an arm under Grigory’s and hefted him off the barstool.
“You are very strong lady, Bianca,” Grigory said. The last round must have hit him hard because he was slurring worse than ever.Sssssshtrong.And “Bianca” came out sounding like a breath spray.
“Grigory, you have no idea.” I helped him to the elevators just outside the club, bundled him in, and hit the button for deck two. “You’re on your own now, chief. Sleep it off.”
He lurched forward, blocking the door from closing. “You are beautiful woman, Bianca. You are old, but I will overlook this and make love to you anyway. I invite you to my cabin.” He threw his arms wide, finishing on a belch.
“I’m going to RSVP ‘no’ to that gracious invitation,” I said. I put a fingertip to his forehead and pushed. He stumbled back and landed against the rear wall of the elevator, mouth gaping open as if he were about to say something. Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he slid to the floor just as the doors closed.
I could have recalled the elevator. I could have followed him down to deck two and wrestled him to his bed. I couldhave flagged down a passing crew member and alerted them to the drunk passed out in the forward lifts.
Instead, I turned and made my way back to my own cabin, whistling the first few bars of “Carry On Wayward Son” as I went.