The Kirov Wolf by R.H. Johnson

Author:R.H. Johnson [Johnson, R.H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction : Crime FICTION / Mystery & Detective / International Mystery & Crime Fiction : Mystery & Detective - Police Procedural
Publisher: Hampton, Westbrook Publishing
Published: 2017-04-19T00:00:00+00:00

24.

At 10:30 p.m. the line of smartly dressed patrons outside Moskva was quickly growing longer. Four massive, unsmiling bouncers in tight black muscle tees made sure everyone stayed behind the velvet rope and didn’t block the sidewalk while waiting, and hoping, to enter one of Manhattan’s hottest night spots. Now and then one of the crew members tapped an unattached pretty young woman on the shoulder and escorted her to the main entrance, where she was granted immediate access to the splendors within. No cover charge, no ID check. Anyone who grumbled about the unfairness of the system was invited to leave the line and told not to come back.

An older guy sporting a confident smile strolled past the throng up to the entrance. He was outfitted in a $15,000 silver-gray Brioni suit, an $800 burgundy silk shirt open to mid-chest, and $3,000 alligator loafers. The door manager immediately jumped from his seat.

“Good evening, Mr. Petrenko,” he said in Russian as he bowed his head slightly. “What a wonderful surprise. We are delighted to have you with us.”

As they shook hands vigorously Petrenko slipped the guy a $50 bill. “Thank you, Maxim. It is a pleasure to be here once again. How is the guest list tonight?”

Maxim grinned and said, “Some very lovely guests in need of a gentleman like you, Mr. Petrenko.”

“Then I will do my utmost,” Petrenko smiled, “to satisfy their needs.”

The club’s interior looked like an odd cross between a mid-seventies discotheque and the Komsomolskaya subway station in Moscow. But the mixture of flashing lights, soaring arches, and stunning laminated glass dance floor all worked somehow, creating an 80-decibel dreamscape in which Moskva’s glittering revelers could leave the real world behind.

As soon as the floor manager spotted Petrenko he rushed over, greeted his important guest, and signaled for one of his men to bring a table. He held up four fingers, and in less than a minute a table for four had been nestled alongside the dance floor. A waiter appeared with an ice bucket containing a bottle of Stoli Elit vodka, and the manager poured the first glass.

“You always remember what I like, Oleg,” Petrenko nodded.

“You have excellent taste in vodka, Mr. Petrenko,” he said while palming the two $100 bills, “as you do in women. Would you enjoy some company this evening?”

“Yes, that would be very nice, Oleg.”

He watched Oleg pass among the dancers who writhed and shuffled to the pounding beat of Pompeya, a popular Russian band the DJ always featured on his playlist. And then, as if by magic, the young women began arriving at Petrenko’s table – three of them, each beautiful, each wearing a tight, very short dress. Yes, they would love some vodka. Yes, they would enjoy dancing. And, yes, they would stay at his table and compete for his attention until the important man from the Russian consulate had decided which of them would leave the club with him tonight.

For the next hour and a half Petrenko and his delightful table guests danced, drank, and nibbled on thin crackers topped with Beluga caviar.

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