The Debt

“Ooph! Her lips flutter as air rushes out. The metallic taste in her mouth is blood, but with wrists bound, she is unable to confirm.

“I do not enjoy this.” His heavy-lidded eyes flash. A second chin wobbles in time with his panting. “You know this, right?” His thick accent sounds like a call from Novosibirsk, his hometown, a district of Siberia. He raises his right hand to strike. A thick gold band swears his love and fidelity.

Despite her best efforts, she flinches. The pooling blood cakes at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue’s exploration confirms her lip is twice its size. Defiant, she juts her chin.

“Elena,” the beefy man implores. “This is no time for defiance.” His eyebrows furrow in disapproval. “This,” he says pointing at the little black book, “means it is time for payment. Da?” He swings his hand up and back as far as his shoulder.

She shudders bracing for his sledgehammer blow. Her ankles are bound, but her knees clap like cymbals. Elena hopes he doesn’t notice. She grits her teeth, holding back the terror. As the beefy hand careens toward her, she squeezes her eyes tight, trying to preserve her eyesight. “Brace. Brace.”

The “whoosh” of air against her face might have felt sensuous had it not been fueled by acrimony. She feels the force behind the hand. It stops just short of impact, suspended by a supernatural force. “My child,” the back of his meaty hand strokes her face. His voice attempts a congenial tone. He holds up a sausage finger. “Rules are rules. You borrow $10,000. You pay $15,000.”

“A little more time,” she says straining to filter fear from her voice. “Leonid, you know I will pay. Please.” She casts her eyes downward as if a contrite child.

“Da. You know I loved your father.” His weighty hand on her shoulder. “Demetri was well respected.” He pauses and looks at her admonishingly. “What would he think!” A tone of disapproval. “His daughter not paying her debts.” He spits these last words in distaste.

“Leonid. I will pay. I am…”

“What?” His voice booms. Face beet red. Veins bulging in his neck. “You disappoint me, Elena. Disappoint your father. May his soul rest in peace.” He bows his head with piety. “I am only doing this because of Demetri.” He nods to a younger man whose anxiety conveys he is not enjoying his participation. The man loosens the ropes binding her ankles and wrists. “Today, I feel generous.” Leonid smiles exposing a gold tooth. “Tomorrow, the payment.”

“Leonid, I need more than tomorrow.” She bites her swollen lip ashamed of her pleading. “Please.” Her gut clenches. “One week,” she asks tapping the numbness from her feet. She locks eyes with him as she rubs her wrists.

Leonid’s nod is almost imperceptible. Glowering at least a foot over her, he is a Colosseum emperor giving a thumbs up. “I can be a generous man.” A cruel smile twists the corners of his mouth. “But…” he pats the top of her head. “I am a businessman too. In one week, you will pay $20,000. This is business.”

As saliva pools in her mouth, Elena purses her lips to spit at this mockery of a human. Seeing his face, she swallows. “I’ll pay,” her defiance wanes.

The wiry, younger man grabs her, nearly lifting Elena off the chair. He anxiously pushes her outside. “You remember, Elena.” Leonid’s voice cautions as he thumps his little black book. “You come with $20,000.” She nods but before the door closes, he says, “Please give my best to your mother.”

The bile in her throat rises as she runs along the boardwalk in Brighton Beach. Just a stone’s throw from New York’s Coney Island, it is dubbed, “Little Russia,” by the diaspora of Russians and Ukrainians. Elena is shaking uncontrollably. She pops into a bar, throws back a vodka, waves her hand, and throws back a second. Outside she sees fur clad grandmas and models alike strut down the boardwalk. “Would Leonid kill me if I can’t pay the $20,000?” She shakes her head side to side to reassure herself. Afterall, Leonid and her father Demetri were like brothers. Her stomach flips. She knows he will.

“Elena!” Her mother’s voice strains with relief. Though not yet fifty, she is frail. With shocking white hair and a trailing oxygen tank, she looks like a grandmother. Once the premier dancer of Russian ballet, Annika is a long-ago memory.

“Mama, sit.” Elena urges pulling out a kitchen chair, guiding her mother’s birdlike frame. This legend, who once turned heads with her striking beauty, now teeters on the brink of afterlife. Her cerulean lips always a warning sign of impending doom. “Let me get you some tea.” Elena puts the kettle on and grabs sugar and milk. “How are you?” She asks as a formality knowing her mother would deny any discomfort. As the sachet steeps, she pours a dab of milk and a teaspoon of sugar into the steaming cup.

Annika sips the tea eyeing her daughter over the cup. “What happened?” Her brows gesturing toward the swollen lip and eggplant bruising on the side of her daughter’s face.

Elena absently touches her face wincing at its tenderness. “It’s nothing.” She lies knowing she cannot deceive her mother’s wisdom. “I am going to need to work more hours at the casino,” she says feigning an air of nonchalance. They both know this is a euphemism for illegal gambling.

“Elena,” Annika’s watery eyes beseech. She dabs them with a tissue, pauses, and catches her breath. “My darling,” she inhales. “You cannot stay in this business. Your father did not want this,” she hesitates. “I know you are worried for me.” She sputters an inhale adjusting the cannula. “Once in,” she coughs. “Never out.” Her dark eyes warn.

Elena intimately understands her mother’s caution. She had plans. Acceptance to MIT. She would escape the clutches of this life and bring her mother out as well. Until pulmonary fibrosis began eating Annika’s lungs like voracious moths. Steroids would delay the disease, but were merely a Band-Aid on a hemorrhage. A promising, new drug targeted these tumors stopping the disease in its tracks. But experimental drugs required money and Leonid had plenty of it – until payback. “Don’t worry, Mama,” she holds her mother’s elbow and escorts her back to bed.

“Mama,” Elena calls out the next morning. “I’m heading to work.” The apartment is silent. She tiptoes through the kitchen grabbing a thermos of strong black tea.

“Elena?” Her mother’s voice barely audible in the quiet.

Elena’s skin prickles. “Please God, no.” She whispers a silent prayer to the mystical deity she doubts exists, but still hopes.

“Elena,” her mother repeats. “Come.”

She enters the room her father and mother once shared. A portrait of Demetri hangs on the wall in beatification. A cord filled with knots is draped over the portrait anticipating someone will pray the rosary. “Come.” The frail woman beckons patting and smoothing the sheet.

Elena nestles her mother, smoothing an errant white wisp from her face. “Good morning, Mama.” She offers a gentle kiss on the woman’s forehead.

“Good morning,” her cool lips graze her daughter’s cheek. Annika’s hands tremble, but her voice is firm. She is clutching a black Moleskine notebook. “This book is your freedom.” She pushes it forward. “You must contact Louie Montrose.” She coughs, inhales, and catches her breath. “Elena. Do not ask questions. Please, for our sake make the call.”

Elena fingers the rounded edges of the book. A note flutters on the cover. There is a phone number. She loosens the elastic band and fans through the ivory pages. Looking into her mother’s eyes, she has no doubt about her next steps. She punches the number and waits. The phone clicks to a message with a man’s voice.

“Leave your name and number at the tone.”

“Hello. This is Elena Sidorov. My mother Annika asked me to call. You have the number.”

Her stomach acid burns as she walks past the restaurant where she’s agreed to meet Louie Montrose. The second time she passes, Elena peers in the window hoping to see a face. A man is seated in the back, too far to catch his features. Sucking in her breath, she opens the door and steps inside. Further inside, his face comes into focus. Her eyes widened as she tries to pivot undetected.

“Elena,” he calls. The wiry man from Leonid’s stands. “Please.” His tone hushed. He gestures a seat.

She reads his face for any fissures of deceit. He is more handsome, younger, and kinder than she remembers. Though admittedly she wasn’t in the looking mood. “Leonid gave me another week. Didn’t you hear him?”

“Louie,” he offers his hand.

Her eyes narrow to slits. Elena pushes away from the table.

Palms up in surrender, Louie points one finger at his jacket. “May I?” The corners of his mouth raise.

Elena nods dubiously.

He pulls a leather, bifold wallet from his inside pocket and drops it. The wallet splays revealing an FBI special agent photo and gold badge. “Sorry for the subterfuge.” He shrugs his shoulders almost touching his earlobes. “Should we start again.” He stretches his hand, “Louie Montrose.” He is smiling through his eyes.

Elena tentatively shakes his outstretched hand. “What’s this about, Mr. Montrose.” An eyebrow tilts suspiciously.

“Louie, please. We’re picking up where your father, Demetri left off, Elena.” He waits.

“Excuse me.” Her shock palpable.

“Your father was working with the FBI. His untimely death,’ he dips his head, “left a major hole in our investigation. He had assembled a list of activities, dates, and names of those involved in this criminal ring.” His finger traces imaginary lines on the table.

She opens her handbag and pulls out the black leather notebook. Elena holds the ribbon bookmark and opens the book to the page. “You mean this?” Her finger points to a name, “Leonid Potrovnos.” Having read her father’s handwritten notes, she blinks back tears. “Did Leonid poison my father?”

“We have our suspicions.” Reflexively he pats her hand. “And, they had theirs about your father.”

Her throat constricts. She caresses the leather book and gives it to him.

He squeezes her hand. “Are you in?”

All smiles, Leonid is the gracious host patting Elena on the back, offering a chair. “I am just making tea,” his tooth shimmers. “Milk and sugar?” He offers her a cup.

The swirling milk roils like an ominous storm. “How many cups did my father drink?” She thinks of his poisoning. “Do you want to count it, Leonid?” She pats a lumpy satchel filled with $20,000 in $20 bills.

“No, of course not!” His belly jiggles with his hearty laugh. “We are family.” He is tripping over his affability. Leonid squeezes into the seat opposite Elena. His jowls quake as he sips the tea. He puts the cup down and peers inside as if he will predict the future. He stirs the tea and looks into Elena’s eyes. His eyes are moist. “I know Annika is not well, Elena. Times are hard.” He points to the satchel of money. Placing his hands on his massive thighs, he lets out a huge sigh. “I will make you a generous offer. I will give you money each week to spend at certain stores. I will pay you $500 each week.” He waves in a magnanimous gesture. “You will start today.” As he reaches for the satchel, the door bursts open.

Louie leads several agents donning windbreakers with “FBI.” He cuffs Leonid.

Leonid’s crimson face turns toward Elena. “I treated you like a daughter! You owe me!”

“You murdered my father.” She chokes. “The debt is paid in full.”

As the agents move Leonid outside, Elena grabs the satchel and hands it to Louie. “It’s yours, Elena. It’s the first installment of the agency’s reward for Leonid.”