Russia has always fascinated me. If that doesn't make sense, check out this map. I'm from Sweden, it's the long orange thing to the left. To give you a sense of the size of Russia, when it comes to area Sweden is the third largest country in western Europe after France and Spain. Compared to Russia, my country is still tiny.
I have one book featuring a Russian already; Alexei Roshenko in Undercover. Valentin in this WIP is a more over-the-top character than Alex, but nothing wrong with having some fun, right? The story still doesn't have a name, but here is the beginning. (The completely unedited beginning.)
Anette passed a long row of beat-up
cars and stepped into a dark repair shop. Three vehicles were on lifts, and the
men working on them looked like they could get a wheel off using only their
fingers.
She said, "Excuse me..."
The closest giant nodded to the
side, and now when her eyes adapted from the bright sunshine outside, she made
out a counter. The woman manning it didn't look too interested, but she was
probably still Anette's best chance.
“I’m here to check on my car. It’s
an o-two Impala. Gold. Had problems with the tranny.”
She held out the ticket, but the
woman didn’t even look. She blew a bubble and popped it before answering in a
broad Russian accent. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen anything about an Impala.
Do you see it?”
“I do not. Maybe you could check
some of your papers? Or your computer? Compare the number on here with your
system?”
It sounded snarkier than she
intended, but she needed the car and this person wasn’t even trying to help. How had her precious
vehicle ended up in this dump?
That’s what she got for asking an
ex for help. Like he would actually help her.
Idiot.
The receptionist, if that’s what
she was, might not know how to use a computer. She was probably hired more on
looks and appeared to compete with the vulgar calendars on the wall. She didn’t have a car or a
motorcycle between her legs, but she did have a bright red miniskirt, a
flowered top that left little to the imagination, and high-heeled shoes that
would make Anette fall and break something. She was also thin enough to fly
away on the smallest whiff of wind.
I
can still see your roots. Making hair that dark peroxide blonde can make it
fall off. If you don’t find my car, I hope it falls off.
All this anger was bad for her
karma, but at the moment, she didn’t care.
The woman leaned over the counter
and hollered, “Valentin!”
What
is this? A bad gangster movie?
The man who sauntered over was tall
with shoulder-length brown hair that needed a wash, and about two days’ worth
of stubble. He wore black jeans, a leather vest, and several
long necklaces. His breath made her want
to wave a hand in front of her face; he was clearly plastered and smelled like
he bathed in alcohol.
Cleaned up and sober he’d look
good, especially with those muscles. Right there and then, towering over her,
he was about the scariest thing she’d seen.
“What’s the problem?”
He too had a Russian accent. Of
course he did.
“I’m looking for my car. You were
supposed to replace the transmission.”
He made an innocent gesture. “I
don’t know. What car? We fix cars. Maybe it’s stolen, it happens.”
“What do you mean stolen? You guys
were supposed to replace the transmission, not lose it.”
The man gazed into her eyes,
clearly trying to make himself irresistible. She crossed her arms over her
chest and glared. Playing nice would probably get her further than being angry,
but she was barely able to keep her voice in check.
“I need it. Please try to find it.”
He stared at her a moment longer and shrugged.
“Mikhail! Have you seen this lady’s
car?”
A man if possible even more in need
of a bath came out from behind a minivan, drying his oily hands on a rag.
Valentin was tall, but this man must be part giant.
“I don’t know. What kind of car.”
“It’s an…” He waved his hand
towards her.
“It’s an Impala.”
The giant said, “No.”
Anette drew a deep breath and
forced herself to relax her shoulders.
“You will find my car, and you will
fix my car, or I will return with a friendly police officer who will
investigate what happened to my car.”
Valentin said, “No.”
She said, “Yes.”
He frowned and glanced over his
shoulder. “Mikhail, find her car.”
She shook her head and headed
towards the outside. There was sunshine and a real world populated by real
people.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
She didn’t expect the Russian drunk
to follow her. Thank goodness she’d asked the taxi to wait for her, or she
might have been stuck with this chop-shop caricature.
He held the car door open. “I like
your spirit. You come work for me.”
“No.”
“Yes. I can get you new car, good
pay, other… job.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking
about, but it’s still no.”
He shook his head a little. “Shame.
Well, think about it.”
She slammed the door shut. “Please
drive. Get us out of here.”
The taxi driver said, “Not a place
I would choose personally. Don’t mess too much with those guys.”
“I didn’t choose it. My ex dropped
it off here, probably as punishment.”
No comments:
Post a Comment