Page 51 of The B!tch is Bad

But Grace’s desk phone rang first. She put it on speaker when she realized it was Klozov. His voice sounded just as shaky and sweaty as his face.

“Grace.” He was trying to sound like his normal friendly self, as though we hadn’t just seen him tear out in a sugar truck. “What are you doing still there?”

Grace rolled her eyes. “I just saw you three minutes ago running through my lobby.”

“What? I wasn’t there. I’m on my way to Cottonwood to visit my ailing father. He’s got Parkinson’s and can’t get around much.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s a real sad state of affairs. Think I’ll have to move to Cottonwood to take care of him.”

“Uh huh.”

I flapped my hand at the surveillance monitor. Grace made her mouth a thin line and nodded.

Yet Klozov continued to blab. “It’s real difficult with Parkinson’s. He has that type where they just freeze up, you know? And I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”

A hunch crept up my spine. Grabbing a pen and the back of a report, I wrote a note to Grace. HE’S STALLING US.

She nodded, grim. “Listen, Oliver. I don’t care where you go because you weren’t supposed to be here in the first place.”

“But I wasn’t there! I swear, Grace, you can ping me or whatever, but I’m heading to Cottonwood!”

I was out Grace’s door just as the fire alarm went off. One of those high-pitched squeals that makes you want to die, as if my ears needed any more tinnitus. I raced to the warehouse floor, opening the heavy door as a gigantic whoosh nearly knocked me flat onto my back. As I clung to the doorknob, an otherworldly moaning like an enslaved spirit rolled out, followed by a zzzzip, an electrical whiplash.

A worker in the warehouse bellowed, “There’s a fire!”

# # #

Creed

As requested, Oliver Klozov was on time for the meeting in our tasting room. The auction was going on in the wine cave, and I really longed to get back to it. Alec Baldwin had just been outbid on a bottle of 2015 Cab by Joaquin Phoenix for the staggering amount of three thousand dollars.

But if there was even a hope of getting my stolen wine back, especially the 1875 vintage, we needed to deal with Klozov. And I was surrounded by bodyguards like Ford, Lytton, Wolf, and Slushy. Slushy twined his fingers together into one giant fist on the table before him, his stern stance belied by his lime green suit. But Ford and Lytton lounged like the thugs they were, elbowing aside their cuts to display their pieces in hip holsters.

Wolf frisked Klozov before allowing him inside, then stood guard at the door. Klozov seemed wired, like he was on meth. Sweat just rained down his face, dripping from his chin like spit. I’d never seen him like that. I guess it was somewhat of a miracle no Bare Boner had exited him yet, or he hadn’t flown to Canada. But we needed answers out of a living human. Klozov sat at our table, rickety like a scarecrow. Unsure where to sling his arm, as though it was broken.

I started out. “I introduced you around as my partner and friend. I brought you into a circle of trust, and you debased it.”

“Fucked it up,” clarified Ford.

I said, “Everyone welcomed you with open arms because we vouched for you.”

I looked at Slushy, giving him his cue. He cleared his throat. “In our research, we unearthed a pile of liens against you. Civil judgment from Rivian, nineteen K. Associated Building Products, sixty-one K and fifty-three K. Pfizer Pharmaceuticals, one hundred fifty K.”

“Pfizer?” cried Wolf from his doorway. “They make Viagra.”

Klozov shifted uncomfortably. “It’s horribly expensive. Prescription drug prices have gone through the roof.”

Slushy rattled a paper he held. “Thefts and swindles got you jailed twice in North Dakota. You’re a fucking convicted felon. We have laws, Klozov. Have your fucking kindergarten teacher read them to you. Getting arrested? That makes people look guilty.”

Klozov sputtered. “North Dakota? That must be my brother. I’ve never even been to North Dakota. Unless you count the time I went spelunking in the calcite caves—”

Slushy directed his firm, loud voice at us now. “I started a blog about all this missing wine. Guess who responded?” His stiff finger pointed right at Klozov’s forehead. Reaching into his briefcase, Slushy whipped out a scroll of never-ending paper, like a magic scarf. “These are his fucking comments. Ranting post after post.”

Ford leaned over. “All caps in red. Severe.”

I hit the table with my palm. “Enough, Klozov! Have you brought me any money? Can you finally tell me where my wine went?”

“Sure,” said Klozov, cheery now. When he reached inside his flannel lumberjack shirt, the Bare Boners’ hands went for their pieces. So Klozov moved slower, retrieving a piece of paper. He unfolded it like it was the winning lottery ticket. He even said, “Here is my offer. My lawyer wrote it up for me.”

Slushy tore it from Klozov’s claws. It didn’t seem he even had time to read it before he tossed it on the table where it spun. “I know this so-called fucking lawyer. He couldn’t find his own ass with both hands and a proctologist. And this so-called fucking offer is three hundred grand below what my client is demanding.”

I reached over and pinched the paper. Sure as shit, three hundred grand below. Was Klozov not aware he had murderers sitting at his bargaining table? I knew then I’d never see any wine, and probably not a single dollar.

Standing, it was my turn to toss the paper onto the table. “Listen, you still have a choice, Klozov. You tell these guys where the wine is, or you can bleed to death.”

That was how I left it. Ford and Lytton had been raring to smoke Klozov, and it was only through my insistence they’re refrained so far. When I turned my back on the tasting room and strode out, I knew I’d never see Klozov’s mug again. I knew the Bare Bones brothers wouldn’t leave a shred of evidence at the scene. I could go to my house, clean up, and join the wine auction in the cave. Santiago Slayer had taught me not to feel guilty when sleazebags exited this plane. There was no loss to anyone—not family, not society, not the planet.

But Klozov had a different idea.

As I marched across the parking lot, all hell broke loose behind me. Somehow Klozov had gotten out, and I heard one gunshot. When I twirled around, I saw the one bullet hadn’t slowed Klozov down as he sprinted for his truck. Ford, Lytton, and Wolf all stood in a line of solidarity with pieces drawn, but since clients walked from the cave to their cars, I motioned for my men to hold their fire. We could always nail Klozov later.

My former vineyard manager waved his own piece out the window. No doubt another ghost gun the felon had put together. “That’s it, Creed! Today’s not your lucky day! Today you die!”

And he shot me.