The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(55)

Without saying a word, she goes into the indoor portion of our restaurant and comes back a minute later with a strange-looking pastry.

“This one is not street food. I assure you, it’s safe,” she says. “Try it.”

The pastry tastes baked, not fried, and seems to be filled with something like apple preserves.

“I like it,” I say. “But wasn’t this supposed to have meat in it?”

“You wanted dessert, so I got you the apple variety. A pirozhok can have all kinds of fillings,” she says and rattles off a weird list that includes eggs, cabbage, cherries, and—my favorite—mashed potatoes. Yes, Russians apparently eat starch filled with starch.

“Thank you, Mira,” I say when I finish my pirozhok. “That was awesome.”

“Don’t mention it. Now let’s walk it off by going toward Coney Island,” she says. “I’m in the mood for a stroll.”

“Okay. But now that we’re done with our meal, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” I pause, and then at her expectant look, I say carefully, “I think you might get your revenge sooner than you thought.”





Chapter 24


“You should’ve told me earlier,” she says after I finish telling her the story about how I got Arkady’s name out of the mobster’s head and how my friend Bert found out about his whereabouts.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t really get a chance before. Not with all the guns you kept pointing at me, and then getting shot and everything else.”

“Fine,” she says curtly. “We have to go to the banya. Now.”

“But what about our walk? Besides, his massage is at four p.m., and it’s two-thirty now,” I say, already regretting that I told her.

“Listen, Darren, I’m sorry, but the walk will have to happen another day,” she says. “Thank you for the lunch and for telling me this now, but I can’t relax and enjoy myself, knowing about a lead like this. Plus, the guy is already there, I assure you. I know how a banya works.”

We walk back to the car. I learn on the way that going to the banya is usually a full-day event and that our target is likely to want to get a couple of parki—the spankings with the birch brooms—before getting his massage.

I start driving, and she continues telling me what she knows of the Russian bathhouse culture. I’m beginning to feel that Russia is the one place I won’t need to visit anytime soon. I suspect I have already learned and seen everything a tourist would have by just going on this one date— if this is a date—with Mira.

“Stop here,” she says when, according to the GPS, we’re a few blocks from the place.

I look around. The neighborhood looks a bit rundown and sketchy.

“We’re going into the Mind Dimension,” she says, clearly seeing the hesitation on my face. “So we’re not really going to leave the car. Please Split and pull me in.”

I do as she asks and phase in.

Immediately, I’m in the backseat looking at the back of my own head and that of Mira. I tap an exposed part of her shoulder, and in a moment, a livelier version of her is sitting next to me.

“Let’s go,” she says, and we make our way to the banya on foot.

We go inside, and I gape at the scene in front of me.

Picture Russian Mafia. Now picture them sitting with regular middle-aged Russian men and a small handful of women—all of them in their swimwear—at what looks like a mix between a cafeteria and a shower stall. Picture all that, and you’ll begin to get an idea of what the inside of this Mermaid place looks like.

“Okay, which one is he?” Mira starts walking around. “They all look like a bunch of regulars.”

“I say we Read people one by one until we find him or verify he isn’t here yet. We can also look for the masseur,” I say. “His name is Lyova.”

“All right. You take the steam rooms, and I will do this area. The masseur is likely to arrive close to the appointment.”

“You sound like you’ve been here before,” I say, heading toward what must be the steam rooms.

“Of course,” she says over her shoulder. “It’s the best banya in Brooklyn.”

I walk over and open the wooden door that leads to the steam room. The people here are even less covered than their counterparts in the lunchroom. They’re also wearing pointy woolen hats that are supposed to protect their heads from overheating. If I hadn’t read about this previously, I’d burst out laughing at the ridiculous sight. Completing the bizarre picture are two people lying on wooden shelves and getting the birch-branch spanking treatment.

I’ve never seen steam frozen in place before. It’s weird. When my body touches it, it condenses into tiny drops of water on my skin. The room is not hot here in the Quiet, but I can tell that in the real world, this place is scorching. Everybody in here is covered with droplets of sweat.

I start Reading people, one after another. Two guys are programmers, another is an electrical engineer, and the majority are retired old men. No gagsters, no Arkady, no luck.

I leave this room and head over to a room that has a sign stating that it’s a Turkish Spa. The glass entrance door is fogged up from thick steam. I’m going to come out wet if I go in there.