Russian Boss’s Secret Baby by Bella King

Ch 22

SLATE

Where did she go?

I’ve paced around this building three times now, inside and out. Her car is still here, and her food is still here, but I haven’t seen any trace of her in the last twenty-five minutes. How could she have escaped?

Maybe she didn’t even know I was here and just chose not to pay for her food. She could have briefly walked down to one of the nearby shops, but when? And why?

I’m just about ready to start flipping tables over until I decide that searching in the women’s bathroom might be my only chance. Even a hardened criminal like myself knows that running into a women’s bathroom is the wrong thing to do, but I have a legitimate reason: I’m looking for my wife who has gone missing. That should sell me well enough.

As I walk toward the women’s bathroom, I notice that quite a few people are staring at me. I realize that my arms aren’t covered as they usually are, any most of my tattoos are exposed, all of them based on occult imagery and therefore intimidating to the average asshole.

A big Russian man with satanic-looking tattoos will not be well-served by going into a women’s bathroom. Though, I don’t believe I have a choice. The last time I chose to give Mia her space, she ran away.

I open the bathroom door, and immediately I’m met with screams from shrill suburban mothers in neon yoga clothes. Before I can even explain or apologize, two men equally as large and imposing as me grab me by both arms and begin to drag me toward the front of the diner.

“Let go of me you pieces of shit! My wife is in there,” I shout, realizing how nonsensical and unhinged I must sound. This plan worked better in my head.

The men toss me outside without a word.

“What the fuck is wrong with you all, keeping a man from his wife? She could be in danger. Fuck you,” I shout from outside the diner as the men stare at me through the glass doors, bored and ready to call the cops.

“Fine, I’ll leave,” I shout one last time. My plan has fallen apart like paper in the rain.

The men smile disingenuously and walk away from the door.

I think harder to myself. Was there anything unusual about the diner when I pulled up? I circled the place a few times, what’s something that could be different or missing…

I remember there being a garishly colored Firebird parked at the front of the diner when I first got here. When I saw it, all I could think was that the owner was a showboat in the middle of a midlife crisis.

Anybody with money knows not to show it off by buying flashy, brightly colored, expensive cars. That’s middle-upper-class shit. So, where is it now?

I mean, the owner of the car could have just left the diner like a regular person.

Sure, but Mia is also missing too. There’s a good chance she anticipated my arrival and called someone to come get her. Or did someone rescue her?

Either way, I need to find out who and why. I jump into my car and speed out of the parking lot before the cops can show up to give me a disorderly conduct charge. The whole situation is eating at me. What kind of person does Mia think I am? Where is she going? Is she really going to turn her back on me after all I’ve done for her?

When I return home, I immediately find myself searching registration and sales records of teal Firebirds obsessively. To my surprise, this particular car is not as popular in the area as other midlife crisis cars like Corvettes and Jaguars. The list of potential owners is small enough to the point that I don’t need to look much further before I find a list of promising names.

The name that stands out the most to me is a mechanic named Gary. He has an entire website dedicated to vintage cars he’s restored to near-perfection and sold. The car I saw was ugly, but it was in particularly good condition; I do remember that.

I find Gary’s number on the website and call him.

He picks up almost immediately. “Hello?”

“Hello, my name is, uh, Domingo, and I’m curious about a teal Pontiac Firebird I saw on your website. Is it still for sale?” I lie, attempting my best American accent.

Gary ponders for a moment, breathing into the receiver like a camp horror serial killer. “I don’t think I got a Firebird on the website there,” he says. “I just sold my last one, I know some people upstate that might have another one that’s similar for ya’ though,” he continues. “The Firebird’s been one of my most difficult restorations, since nobody makes the parts for ‘em no more,” he prattles on.

He continues like this for a solid three minutes before I’m able to get a word in edgewise.

“No, no. Actually, I’m wondering if you could give me the information of the person who purchased the car from you. I would like to offer them a large sum of money for the car, potentially twice what they paid for it.”

Silence crackles along the line. “Oh, uh, I don’t think I can do that for ya’, sir,” he replies. “All that stuff is confidential, I don’t even think the DMV will give you info like that just for asking.”

I’m losing my patience now. “Listen, man. I need to know who bought that care from you. I can give you fifty-thousand dollars just for the name, seventy-five thousand for the name and contact information. Don’t be an idiot,” I say, losing my character a bit and reverting back to my Russian accent.

“Oh wow, that’s a lot of money sir. I don’t think I could take that kinda’ cash from you just for someone’s information. Either way, I can’t do it, doesn’t feel right.”

“Give me the name or I’ll say fuck the money and break your fucking kneecaps, Gary.”

The line goes silent for a bit, more static filling the space between us. “Dang, Domingo, you’re kind of an asshole. Fine, I’ll take the bribe. But you’re losin’ a lot of money on me! I doubt she’ll give up that car,” he says.

“Okay, okay, whatever. What’s the name of the person who bought it?” I ask impatiently.

“Her name is Katie Sloan. Pretty thing, I’d say she was the American dream if not for the Russian accent. Not sure if that’s appropriate ‘n all,” he replies.

Katie?! I think to myself, panicking. Katie Sloan is the alias of my psycho bitch ex from St. Petersburg. Her real name is Katya, and she’s a fucking insane person. “Okay, I’ll have one of my men bring you your money, thanks.” I say hastily as I hang up.

Now I really have to find Mia.

Katya is going to hurt her.