Caramarin knocked and Narcisa let him in.
"Where have you been? I've been worried about you. And why are you dressed as Santa?"
"Ho, Ho, Ho," said Caramarin. He'd picked up from their TV that's what Santa Clauses were supposed to say. He tried to give her a kiss, but Narcisa pushed him away.
"That was my present," he said.
"I'd prefer jewellery or perfume. Or maybe just an answer," she retorted.
"Sorry, I forgot to switch my phone back on. I had some men to see."
"I see. Reindeer herders were they? Or maybe toy makers?"
"What?"
"Would explain why you're dressed in that silly outfit."
"I thought it would make you laugh," said Caramarin. "I'm sorry it didn't." He took off the costume and then stepped into the kitchen to see if there was anything to eat. Or any more painkillers.
Narcisa followed him in. "And why have you shaved your head? It doesn't suit you."
She started buttering bread, the palette knife flashing angrily as she worked, gouging holes in the bread.
"I just fancied a change. And it's easier to manage like this." The excuse sounded thin, even to his ears.
Narcisa sighed. "I'm sorry I was snappy. I've been in a funny mood today. The manager's been on my case all day but I took out a moody loan on a customer and got some more money for you."
She handed over a small roll of notes.
"Please, pay this back as soon as you can. Before any paperwork starts going out. I'm trusting you, Nicu, but I know I shouldn't." Her dark brown eyes upturned, apprehensive.
This time, Caramarin took her shoulders and kissed her. Kissed her deeply. His hand dropped to her bottom, pulling her closer. She was a good woman, she deserved better than him. Maybe she knew that, too.
Fuck-shit. Caramarin had been here long enough to recognise the theme tune of the local news. Probably a bit early to worry, but a sharp reporter tipped off by the cops might have been quick enough to file some material at the studios.
He pushed Narcisa away, raced back down the hall into the girls' front lounge. Ewelina and Marta were huddled together over the laptop giggling over some freshly uploaded party photos on Facebook. Ewelina wore her usual white bathrobe. She clutched it closed, not wishing to risk another upset with Narcisa. The television was only background noise but both looked up, startled, as Caramarin burst in and changed the channel to something, anything else.
"Hey, I was watching that," said Marta.
He rapidly scrolled through the channels until an R'n'B music video showed.
"All men are perverts," laughed Ewelina. "Nicu only wants to watch the dancers' booties.
"Narcisa not enough any more?" said Marta.
Caramarin said nothing but returned to the kitchen, keeping hold of the remote.
"What are you up to, Nicu? I wish you'd tell me," asked Narcisa.
"You don't want to know. Honestly, you don't want to know."
They returned to the lounge and Caramarin ate the sandwiches, swallowing a Tramadol with some milk. As the pain ebbed, he started to drift off in the warmth of the room. Only problem was, Narcisa sat at her end of the couch, her legs tucked under her, her arms crossed. Not speaking. He threw his legs out and his head nodded forward.
***
An alarm startled him awake. What? It took a moment to snap alert to realise where he was. He shook his head.
"It's yours," said Narcisa. "Maybe one of Santa's helpers needing you."
Caramarin fumbled his cell out. Pompiliu Stanga. What the fuck did that man want?
Caramarin listened. All the girls heard was him saying, "yeah, yeah, I'll be there."
"I'm sorry, I've got to nip out for a while. Won't be long." Caramarin felt shattered. Truly exhausted. He could really have done without this. All he wanted to do was rest, needing to lie low and stay out of sight for a while.
Narcisa looked up. "Off to see the toy makers?"
"Not exactly. Will you call me a cab?" He tossed Narcisa his phone. He dragged himself upstairs. As he climbed the stairs, he heard the girls talking. They spoke English but he heard his name mentioned more than once. Caramarin couldn't face going out again. Needing a pick-up, he remembered the little bag of white powder he'd taken off Pojer's body.
Caramarin dipped a finger tip into the powder and licked it. His face lit up as his tongue registered the familiar sensations. Cocaine and first rate. Great. Crossing to the bathroom, he locked himself in and chopped himself a line. Only a small one as he'd not snorted for ages and there wasn't much left anyway. Caramarin rolled up a note then stooped over the cistern lid.
A moment of clarity stabbed his mind. Did he really want to go back on the Bolivian marching powder again? Thinking about it, he realised he hadn't snorted since leaving Odessa so his body was clean at the moment. But he needed a little extra if he was going to get through whatever Stanga wanted tonight. With his lip curled in self-disgust he snorted up the line. Straightening up he wiped down the lid, then flushed the toilet.
The over familiar rush hit him like a velvet wrapped punch. His exhaustion vanished with the chemical high. For a while he felt like a tiger with muscles of iron and tendons of steel. He slipped on his jacket and keffiyeh scarf and bounced back downstairs.
He scooped up Narcisa and kissed her; then kissed her again, more deeply, before setting her down. She looked confused, her deep brown eyes frowning. She opened her mouth to speak but Caramarin didn't give her a chance by kissing her a third time. Half way through his passion the cab blew its horn so Caramarin escaped before she said anything more than a quick good-bye. Great.
Outside of Stanga's social club, Caramarin stepped out of the cab, and nodded to the doormen on duty. One opened the door for him and Caramarin stepped into a wall of R'n'B sound. The room throbbed with the bass beat cranked up. Spotlights lit up the stage, leaving the room in semi darkness. Despite the hour, the room was mostly full. He thought most of the men were East Europeans but saw a group of Turkish looking guys in one corner. But what hit his eyes first were the three girls up on the stage.
All were nearly naked. As he stood there, one dropped her bra onto the stage to cheers and wolf whistles from the men. She reached behind her, letting her hair flow down her back like a golden waterfall. She arched her back, her magnificent globe-like breasts pointing straight up at the ceiling. Caramarin lost interest. Fakes.
The athletic girl in the middle; a bright orange glow to her skin from fake tan, was upside down, her thigh twisted around a pole, slowly spinning down to the floor. Her long hair brushed the floor. Incredibly strong thigh muscles. Her arms stretched out to the men, as if imploring them to join her, as if only they could satisfy her needs.
But it was the third girl who caught Caramarin's eye. She didn't have the physique of an athlete and was perhaps a little shorter than the other two. The dancer had full breasts and dark brown or black hair. He saw a tattoo snaking down her thigh. Apart from that, from this distance, she kind of reminded Caramarin of his girl, Valeriya, back in Odessa.
Suddenly he felt very homesick. What the hell was he still doing in this horrible, rain-soaked city? As he stared, the girl untied one side of her thong. The crowd cheered. She undid the other side, then slid the tiny thong between her legs.
Caramarin bulled his way to the front of the crowd, his eyes fixed on the third girl as she stripped. Their musical piece ended and immediately the girls waved and ran off the stage. There was a rush of men to the bar. More music, with only slightly less bass than before. Caramarin came out of his trance and peered through the gloom. To one side, with a good view of the stage, he saw Stanga's driver, Tibor Budescu, and some of his men. Caramarin pushed his way over.
"Dressed for a night out?" commented Budescu.
"My good suit's still at the cleaners," Caramarin said.
Budescu poured out vodkas. The men clinked glasses and downed the firewater in one. Caramarin glanced at his empty glass. Budescu took the hint and poured again.
"There'll be dancing again soon. We'll watch that, then I'll take you to see the boss," said Budescu.
The same three girls came back out, this time dressed in pink sequinned cow-girl outfits. Caramarin had eyes only for the shorter girl with the big breasts. Stetsons off first, tiny bolero jackets next. The girl noticed Caramarin sitting next to Budescu and figured he might be important. She tossed her thong to him, but Budescu, laughing, snatched it out of the air one handed. The dancers finished off wearing only white cowboy boots.
"Not bad," said Budescu. "Noticed you staring at Ada. The boss might be able to fix you up, if you're interested?" Caramarin nodded, light headed; the coke's buzz mixed with vodka and exhaustion.
Budescu led the way to the side of the club. He pushed open a door near the stage leading to offices and storerooms. The noise level dropped but the heavy bass vibrated through the floor. A stack of cola boxes took up half the corridor. Budescu pushed open a door. A man jumped up from behind a cheap office desk. Several flat-screen monitors filled the desk.
"Fuck's sake, Budescu, I nearly shit myself," the man said. On the desk was a small mirror with a few fat lines laid out. A rolled up note lay on the mirror. Several brochures for luxury cruise holidays were piled up on one end of the desk.
Budescu laughed. "With what the boss pays the cops, we'd get plenty of notice of a raid." The man sat down again. Caramarin searched his memory, eventually coming up with the name of Daniel Perianu, the nightclub's manager.
"Any chance of some?" asked Caramarin. Trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.