The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(18)

Jenkins felt his heart sink. Having a daughter, he struggled to control his building anger at the woman’s mistreatment. When Jenkins shifted his attention back to the two men, the punk leaned on his pool cue, giving Jenkins a hard stare. He stuck his thumb between his ring and middle fingers, the Russian equivalent of the finger.

Jenkins forced himself to look away. Punk.

The bartender returned with his Lobotomie. Jenkins took a sip and smiled up at him. The man turned to leave. “Vasha kukhnya yeshche otkryta?” Jenkins asked. Is your kitchen still open?

Behind the bartender the woman navigated the step to the pool table while carrying four bottles. As she neared the two men, a bottle slipped from her grasp and shattered on the linoleum floor.

“Vot der’mo,” the bartender said under his breath. Shit.

“Suka!” The pool hustler swore.

The mountain took the remaining bottles from the woman.

“Priberis’,” the punk said. Clean it up. He grabbed the woman by the neck and shoved her to the ground. “Oblizhi ego kak sobaka.” Lick it up like a dog.

Jenkins gripped his bottle and looked to the bartender, who was clearly not going to do anything.

The punk squatted behind the woman and used the pool cue to simulate a sex act, then grabbed the woman by her hair and pulled her to her feet. He said something to the mountain and the two men exited with the woman through a door at the back of the bar.

The bartender’s voice drew Jenkins’s attention. “Tol’ko rubili. Kreditnye karty ne prinimaem. Chto vy khotite zakazat’?” Rubles only. No credit cards. What do you want?

Inside, a storm raged, but Jenkins spoke calmly, even managed a smile. “Ya dumayu ty prav. Dumayu, mne luchshe uyti.” I think you’re right, he said. I think it best that I leave.



Jenkins walked outside the bar but not in the direction of his hotel. At the building’s edge he looked down an alley filled with garbage bags overflowing a bin, wooden pallets, and newspaper stacks. In a cone of light from a fixture above the bar’s back door, the punk had the woman pinned against a wall, one hand at her throat. His other hand undid his belt buckle. The mountain stood watching the show, his back to Jenkins.

As Jenkins approached, the punk slapped the woman hard across the face.

“You don’t want to lick up the beer, dog?” He slapped her a second time, just as hard. “Perhaps there is something else you want to lick. Huh?” He forced the woman to her knees, now gripping her hair. Blood trickled from her nose and the corner of her mouth. He unzipped his fly, but he swore when he struggled to pull himself free.

“Vozmozhno, vy ne mozhete yego nayti, potomu chto on takoy malen’kiy,” Jenkins said. Perhaps you’re having trouble finding it because it’s so small.

The mountain quickly swiveled. His hand moved to the bulge under his leather jacket, but the punk raised a hand, stopping him. The punk shoved the woman onto the ground and stepped from the cone of light, squinting as if having trouble seeing Jenkins.

“Chto ty skazal, starik?” What did you say, old man?

Jenkins kept one eye on the mountain’s hands. “I said, perhaps the reason you’re having trouble finding your pecker is because it’s so small.”

The punk smiled, but with uncertainty. He was no doubt debating whether the old man insulting him was drunk, simpleminded, or had lost his mind altogether. He looked to his companion, who also seemed perplexed. Then the punk laughed. The mountain laughed with him, but again, Jenkins knew it was nerves.

“You have some big balls, old man,” the punk said. “The old man must have big balls, don’t you think, Pavil?”

The mountain nodded.

Jenkins continued to watch the mountain’s hands.

The punk grabbed the pool cue from the brick wall and stepped toward Jenkins. “Perhaps you’d like to show us your big balls. Huh?” He turned and nodded to the woman. “Perhaps you’d like to show her your big balls? What do you say, old man? Would you like a turn?”

Jenkins smiled. “Here’s what I’d like. I’d like you two to go back into the bar and finish your beers and your game of pool. I’ll even buy you a round.”

The young man lost his smile. “You want her all to yourself, old man?” He made lewd gestures with his hands and his hips and spoke to his friend. “The old man does not wish to share, Pavil. So selfish.”

“So selfish,” Pavil said.

“Here I offer to share, and you want to take her all for yourself.”

“The woman is going to leave. She’s going to go home,” Jenkins said.

“Is she?”

“You’ve had your fun. I’m asking you, again, to go back into the bar and finish your beers and your game.”

The young man made a steeple with his hands and put the steeple beneath his chin, as if thinking. “What if . . .” He held up a finger. “What if . . . instead of us going inside, I stay here and fuck the woman while Pavil beats the shit out of you? How do you like that option, old man?”

“You know,” Jenkins said. “I really don’t like being called ‘old.’”

“No?”

“No. You see, I believe age is just a mindset, that if we don’t think of ourselves as old then we aren’t.”

“You are a philosopher,” the punk said.