Free Father Night by Eric Van Lustbader Page B

gills.”
    “How the hell can you tell?”
    That set them both to laughing, but Nona sobered up quick enough.
    “Shit, Alan, I’m in an awful bind.”
    “I figured.” He pulled up in front of their favorite greasy spoon and killed the ignition. “Come on. We’ll sort it out over eggs and coffee.”
    They got out and, hunched over against the wind gusts, went up the concrete steps into the diner. The place was nearly empty and they took their usual window booth. To their left was a long counter with red vinyl stools and, beyond, past the ranks and stands of layer cakes, fruit-filled turnovers, and old-fashioned crullers, was the open kitchen. The interior looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since it had opened in the 1950s. It smelled like it, too, but the thick impasto of grease, sweat, and desperation was all part of the charm. There was even a stained photo of Eisenhower over the pass-through to the steaming kitchen.
    Elsie, the old waitress who had been there forever, waddled over, pad and pencil stub clutched in her arthritic hands. “What’ll it be, young-uns?”
    “The usual,” Fraine said, “for both of us.”
    She nodded. “Prepare your stomach linings, coffee’s coming right up.”
    Fraine pulled out a couple of paper napkins from the chrome container while Nona flipped through the offerings on the table’s remote jukebox.
    “Nat King Cole or Etta James?” she said.
    Fraine grunted. “Etta by a nose.”
    Nona inserted a quarter and pressed some buttons. A moment later, James’s “All I Could Do Was Cry” came wafting through the speakers.
    “How appropriate,” Fraine said.
    “So beautiful, so sad,” Elsie said as she set the cups of coffee and the pitcher of cream in front of them. “Eggs and bacon on the griddle.”
    “Bring another coffee setup,” Fraine said as she turned to leave.
    Nona frowned. “Someone’s joining us?”
    “I made the call when you showed. He’ll be here shortly.”
    “Who?”
    “Tell me what happened,” Fraine said.
    Nona recounted her summons from Bishop, how he had extorted her compliance in exchange for keeping her on the street where she belonged.
    “I knew he was an unholy little shit,” Fraine said, “but he’s now graduated to an entirely new level.”
    Nona smiled thinly at his deliberate use of her own phrase. Elsie arrived with eggs, bacon, and whole-wheat toast, which was Fraine’s concession to good nutrition. Immediately, he tucked heartily into his breakfast, but she merely toyed with her food.
    After his second mouthful, Fraine looked up at her. “Nona, eat. That’s an order.”
    She nodded, eating with small, deliberate bites. She could taste nothing but ashes. “I didn’t want to get you involved, but now … I mean, what the hell am I going to do, Alan? Bishop’s too powerful for either of us.”
    Fraine nodded. To her consternation, he seemed unperturbed. “That may be true, but we have friends even Bishop doesn’t.”
    Her head came up. “We do?”
    As if on cue, the secretary of homeland security entered the diner.
    *   *   *
    T HE Z OLKA chocolate factory lay in the Chertanovo industrial area, about seven miles south of the center of Moscow.
    They had driven out of the industrial park grounds without incident. Annika was driving, while Jack returned to the back to check on Boris. Katya had done a remarkable job, tearing a piece of fabric and tying it in a makeshift but effective tourniquet.
    Jack checked Boris’s wound, confirming that it was a flesh wound. The bullet went through the triceps and out the other side. The wound looked clean. Katya suffered all the violence and its aftermath more stoically than he could have imagined. When he mentioned this to her, she smiled sadly and said, “I’ve seen far worse.”
    She put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, I love Annika dearly, but when it comes to her dyadya she can be explosive. He has been mother, father, and mentor to her. He sacrificed to get her back