“Fucking Russians!” Rust slams the office door behind him as he storms in. “Where’s Miller?”
“Said he had to go on a parts run. Didn’t want to wait for the delivery guy anymore. Why? What’s up?” Rust sounds more agitated than he was when he called last night, trying to drag me out to The Cellar to talk.
Rust shakes his head. “Just got off the phone with Andrei about the Ferrari.”
Shit. So they did figure it out. “I knew that was going to come back and bite us. What’d you say?”
“The truth. That they didn’t want to do business with us so we were forced to go elsewhere.”
“And?”
“And now they’re claiming another five percent upcharge for handling fees for the next shipment. Something about needing to bribe more officials. Plus he said the orders will be light for the next round.”
“You told them to go to hell, right?”
Miller’s chair protests with a loud creak as Rust drops into it, his forehead in his hands. “Not yet. I’ve got to figure out the right way to handle them.”
“Fuck ’em! We’re taking all the risk and they’re undercutting us. We’ve already got another pipeline, remember?”
“And I’ve already told you, it’s not that easy. If I just stop doing business with them, this could get ugly, Luke.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
Rust sighs, his hard gaze locked on the gray-tiled floor. “I’m not sure yet, to be honest. They need us if they want this organization working for them, and it’s a smooth-running operation. I just can’t figure out why they’re dicking me around so much.” He groans loudly, and then slaps the desk, which I know means he’s switching gears to something else. That’s Rust. He doesn’t get too bogged down with one problem. He keeps his focus and things move at a fast pace. That’s why he’s so successful. “So you’re going up to the Astoria warehouse this week?”
“Yeah. Rodriguez has a few chopped cars to unload.” The second part of my role—driving to the warehouse to accept an order and pay Rodriguez—makes the phone calls seem like a piece of cake. I’ve only had to do it once so far. My hands were cramped by the time I got home, from gripping the steering wheel so tight. I’ve never felt relief like I did after parking Rust’s truck and getting back into my car. Done with it.
“Okay. I’ll send you the code to the gate. Let me know what time you’re going up.”
My phone begins ringing. Aref’s name flashes across the screen. “Speak of the devil.” Aref’s obviously not using a burner phone, so it must not be about the Ferrari. “Just give me the word, Rust.”
He hesitates and then nods. “Talk to him. See exactly what he’s looking for. In person.” He holds a finger of warning up. “But don’t commit to anything.”
I nod my understanding to Rust, the receiver to my ear already. “Hey, buddy. How’s the pretentious scotch?”
“Still pretentious,” Aref’s smooth English-laced accent answers with a laugh.
“Were your ears burning? Rust and I were just talking about you.” I give my uncle a salute as he leaves.
“Only good things, I hope.”
“Always. What can I do for you?”
“Elmira and I are hosting a few friends on our yacht this weekend. We were hoping you and your woman could attend.”
My woman. I smile. Is she mine? Does she want to be?
“It’ll be an overnight sail along the Columbia River. We’ll stay in the mouth, given the water’s too choppy beyond that at this time of year. What do you say?”
“Sounds perfect.” For more than one reason.
