A PALE HORSE

Maggie had been to New Orleans a handful of times and she had always enjoyed the sights and sounds of the French Quarter, but not this afternoon. She was cramped, hot, nervous, and over it. Cramped because Max took up the majority of the available room in the small bicycle cab, hot because the sun continued to bake them even through the canvas awning they were under… and you couldn’t buy a breeze in New Orleans as far as she knew, nervous because she rode with the powerful son of THE most powerful crime family in all of Russia, and over it…. well, just because. Maggie bore the ride through the quarter like a high school detention, busying herself in her current miserable condition by studying the people they passed. She saw a troupe of mummers, a very talented saxophonist, and a group of college men all in the span of two blocks; and although the experience was interesting to say the least, she didn’t believe that she would be able to live in the chaos that surrounded this place on a day- to- day basis…. or the heat, for that matter. They rounded the corner on to Decatur and were making their way towards Jackson Square, when Max spoke to the driver of the pedicab.

“Where are you taking us?” he asked. Maggie turned to him, a quizzical look on her face; she had thought that he had ordered the driver to a specific location when they first entered. All of her instincts told her she should be on alert, and she paid close attention to their exchange.

“You will know when we stop, yes?” came his flat response. She hadn’t noticed it before, but their driver was not attired like the others she had seen, and his accent was not French- it was Russian. Max’s father was pulling the strings, even here, over ten thousand miles away. Lev Avatov had a reputation for maniacal precision, demanding perfection and efficiency from all of his men, along with his penchant for vindictive brutality. He did not trust his son alone, therefore, he was not alone- ever. From the look on his face, she could tell Max had realized it as well Max let an audible growl escape from him and he threw his great frame back in the seat, irritated and not bothering to hide his displeasure at the driver’s attitude. She snuck a furtive glance at her companion- as massive and imposing a figure she couldn’t recall ever having been associated with in the past. He really fit to a tee the great Russian bear trope, although without the brutish roughness. Max was handsome, and he was more angular and classic than fur and girth. She looked at him again and she caught his eye. His irritated look relaxed into the easy smile she had come to know in the last few months. Maggie was used to getting into situations that require finesse and a bit of acting to navigate. This was no exception. She was becoming quite attached to Max and that she decided was definitely dangerous, considering who his father was.

“Where are we going anyway, Max? You promised me some fun tonight! Are you going to have another boring meeting?”. While she still sported a pout teeming with rehearsed disappointment, she was actually observing Max’s reaction to her last question very closely.

“We will have the promised fun, but we need to make a small stop to see an …associate. Please, lyubov.” Max took her hand in his, a gesture meant to placate his date and allow him the leeway needed to conduct his organization’s business without risking a displeased Maggie to show for it. His expression willed her to not be angry with him for this small detour, and he doubled down in his quest to make her happy. “We will go to get dinner after this and we will have the rest of the night to have fun.”, he told her. She was amazed at his eagerness to please her or escape her well-worn disappointed expression. She had been in this place and situation countless times before, but it had never been this hard on her to manipulate her mark. Maggie had a great affection for Max that she couldn’t deny- he was no thug. He was refined, caring for those smaller than himself, had a strong sense of duty and family, and he was funny and cultured. Yes, she cared for him. And he would never, ever know it. She would make certain. She brushed aside reality and slipped back into the pretend world she knew so well.

“Well, it’s not going to be long, is it? The last time I had to wait a whole hour by myself in a smelly lobby reading a magazine that was four months old.”, she stated. She considered briefly, then decided to try a different tack. She sidled up to him and, pout at the ready, gazed up at him with a look that was both doleful and expectant, “Can I stay with you this time, Max? I get so lonely!” She leaned in to him a little, hoping he would relent and let her stay with him.

“I am sorry, kiska, but you would be bored. My business would not be interesting to such krasivyy tsvetok” he finished with a smile and a soft caress of her cheek. Max,1- Maggie, zip. This wasn’t going to be easy!

She came back at him, “What does that even mean? Are you calling me dumb??”, she raised her voice in a defensive tone. Max could quickly see his evening turning sour.

“Please understand, kiska- this business is not with a man I know. I must be alone, but I will be brief. I am sorry.“ Max frowned down at her and gave her hand a dismissive pat. Maggie knew when Max was at an immovable point, and she surmised it was best to change the subject.

“Max, I get it. I just want to know more about you, and that includes what you do. You understand, right?” she said cheerfully.

“Yes, I do, and I am eager for you to know me as I long to know you, myshka. In time,” he replied.

“Max, what does that mean?”

“What part?” he asked her with a mischievous grin.

“Kiska and krassy… whatever that other thing you called me was?” she asked. Max let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head.

“Krasivyy tsvetok. kiska means ‘kitten’ and…”, he gently grabbed her chin between his massive thumb and index finger so she was eye to eye with him, as if what he was about to say carried great significance, “‘krasivvy tsvetok’ means beautiful flower”.

“Oh!” she blushed, and she was taken aback by the genuine sweetness in his comment. Maggie gently removed his hand from her face and guided it back to his lap. “Thank you”, she replied and then returned her gaze forward hoping he didn’t see the flush she knew was invading her complexion at that moment. As they progressed through the quarter, Maggie witnessed architecture and establishments that ranged from quaint to eccentric to positively stately.

The pedicab stopped and she thought, Wow! This is definitely one for the books! The pedicab came to a stop at the edge of the river, outside the oddest store Maggie had ever seen. It was a two-story shop, painted a garish light blue, almost neon, with what looked like a stuffed vulture in the window. Like many of the businesses in the quarter, the second story had wrought iron fencing surrounding the balcony, but it was also redone in the same obscene color. The paint, unlike the coatings adorning most of the other Quarter buildings, looked recent and fresh, and it appeared to have been painted in a hurry. An adjoining warehouse could be seen rising behind the weird old shop. Maggie was no Rembrandt, but she recognized erratic brush strokes and uneven paint when she saw it, and both the shop and the outbuilding wore the same colors. They were painted recently, and in a hurry, and she wanted to know why. It was curious, but Maggie was not in a position to query the proprietor. Max lit from the back of the pedicab after her, gave a curt nod to the driver, and turned back to face the bright blue store. He gave a quick sidelong glance at either building on the left and right, then readjusted his gaze and set it squarely on the ugly blue door facing him. Maggie fell in beside him and they approached. Just as they reached the door to the shop it opened, and Maggie looked into the coldest eyes that she had ever seen. She took an involuntary step back behind Max’s shoulder. She looked up at Max and noticed that his face had transformed to a block of stone. The warmth that she had seen only moments before had disappeared.

“Mr. Avatov?” came a voice that Maggie could only describe as unctious. The features weren’t much better in her estimation: the man was tall, thin, had a hook nose like a beak, and a sallow complexion. He was balding on the top of his sort of pointed head, she noticed, but had long stringy hair that went almost to the middle of his back. Tons of hair in back and none on top, she thought.

I’d call that a ‘skullet’. She smiled slightly at the term, but quickly stopped and froze under the uneven gaze of the oily man. He regarded her for a second, and then one fuzzy eyebrow cocked as he looked at Max.

“Yes.” came the abrupt reply.

“Narcisse Olivier. Come in,” he stepped aside to allow Max to enter and Maggie got the distinct impression that he was judging her as she stepped past him, and what he found obviously appealed to him. He dismissed the driver with a wave of his hand, gave one last look to the right and left, turned into his shop, and closed the door. Maggie tried to get her bearings, but really didn’t know where to look. The shop was dark and layers of dust covered the floor. The display cabinets were crowded along either side of the room and slunk low, displaying their contents in poor light and, she noticed, smeared glass. The glass was oily, as was the proprietor. Overhead, Maggie noticed all manner of curiosities suspended from exposed beams and ductwork for an ancient central air conditioning system. The place was filled, she noticed, not with treasures, objet d’art, or even amusing curiosities.

It’s mostly touristy crap, thought Maggie. Not what I would expect, given our business here. Why IS Max here?, she thought. She saw nothing of value, and she knew that the area they were in would be prime territory for the purchase of something rare and valuable, mostly from what she had heard on the street. Most of the shops and businesses on the Mississippi in New Orleans did a booming trade. Late at night. In the dark and in secret. That’s what she figured; whatever they were here to get or see was something that should not be seen in daylight. She turned back to the wares displayed on the massive wooden shelves and in the bookcases and displays that seemed to spring up, not according to any planned layout, but seemingly right from the piles of dust on the well-worn wooden floor. She saw shrunken heads, dunking birds, cheap street magic tricks, wood carvings, magnets, bumper stickers… it really was disappointing to her to see such obviously cheap garbage. She wondered if the same sorts of goods were housed in the massive storage facility attached to the back of the dilapidated old store. She very much doubted it. Maggie was willing to bet that the shoddy front did a very effective job at hiding the valuable things that passed into and out of the back. She turned and looked to Max who had walked directly to the far side of the store as if he knew what he was after, not looking around or even breaking eye contact with the back of the old shopkeeper’s mottled head. She was taking in the shelf of voodoo dolls that said “Made in Taiwan” on them when Mr. Olivier’s voice brought her back to the filthy shop.

“Now, I believe we have some business to talk about. If you would like to browse, my dear,” he said, turning to Maggie, “we will only be a moment. If you see anything you like I’m sure we can come to an equitable arrangement.” Maggie shivered in repulsion. She was not sure if she felt better knowing that he would be leaving the room in a moment or if she really would rather someone remain in this little shop of horrors with her.

Max leaned over and whispered to her, “We will only be a moment, kiska… why don’t you try looking around?”, he suggested.

Maggie looked at Max, gave him a small smile and a nod. He dropped his hand from her cheek and turned on his heel to exit the room. Maggie watched him, then turned to look at the stuff surrounding her, no longer really interested in what she may find. Her gut was telling her to direct her attention elsewhere, and to try to keep an eye on the two men as they conducted their business. She reached her hand out to the closest shelf and picked up an object without inspecting what she held. She watched their progress towards the back of the store from the corner of her eye as they went through a red painted door in the back. A light flickered on and the door closed, but not completely, and light shone through the small crack they left. She glanced briefly at the object she had been holding, a Super Bounce Ball, and returned it to the shelf. She inched her way through the room towards the door where she could hear what they were saying without being seen.

“Now, Mr. Avatov, what is it that I can do for you?” came the same oily voice from before. “I’m assuming that you are after something for your father, am I right?” he said.

“You assume correctly.” Came Max’s reply in the same abrupt style. “I am searching for relics that were stolen from us. I believe they have found their way to you.”

“And what makes you so certain that I have these relics?”, the proprietor asked.

Mr. Oily, Maggie thought. Come on, Mags! You can do better! Only, Mr. Oily really DID suit him the best, so she shrugged to herself and leaned in further to hear what was next.

“We have people who watch for these things, and our sources are NEVER wrong.” Inflection on the “never” part was not lost on Olivier.

“Well, as it happens, I was able to purchase a few items in the past few months that have garnered a lot of attention. From interested parties.” He didn’t try to contain his meaning, or his glee, with the last sentence; whatever Mr. Olivier was holding on to, he knew it would make him a handsome sum, and he sounded like he already had it spent. He started, “What exactly can you offer me? The offers have been attractive, but I knew your father would be sending someone to me, and I did not want to disappoint, no?” he finished, and Maggie could picture him cocking a single slick eyebrow. “What does your father offer?”

“We can offer you many things, Mr. Olivier, not the least of which is your life. No one steals from us. I trust you know that.” Max said, his voice passively ominous, “How about we start with the relics and where and whom you purchased them from?”

“Ah yes, straight to the point I see,” said Olivier. Maggie thought she still liked Oily better, and they sounded a lot alike, so she decided to keep it.

“Well, let us discuss things then”. She heard him walk a few steps and rifle through some papers, all the while clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Maggie jumped a little when he slammed the sheets down on what sounded like a metal table. “Yes!”, he exclaimed, and then started to speak quickly in an excited, hushed tone. “The skeleton of the beast that holds your father’s fascination, purchased by me and in my possession since its arrival on land. No one else has seen it or knows of its existence, not even the crew of the barge that delivered it. Anyone involved with the transport has been dealt with, per your father’s instructions.” Max, sure of Olivier’s methods, winced and clenched his ample hands into tight fists. The old crowish man seemed to enjoy this reaction and dug in a bit to twist the revelation’s knife. “Did your father tell you? It appears not.” The man’s footfalls put him apace from the origin of their conversation, and close to what sounded like a large, metal door. Maggie slid around another counter to improve her eavesdropping position, and slowed her breathing as the oily man continued. “Well, I will sell the relics back to you for the price I paid for them in return for a favor to be repaid at my convenience.”, he stated. “The other information I am afraid you will have to pay for like everyone else. Your father knows my prices and he knows my other clients, so the fees shouldn’t be a problem or a surprise.” He told Max.

Price paid plus a favor, Max thought. I know your proclivities and the types of favors you ask my father for, you devil bastard! Max’s rage bubbled a bit over the top and he crossed quickly to Olivier, again grabbing him and shaking. “You take liberties with my father’s generosity, old man! Be certain that I will not be as generous when you deal with me!” Olivier, his breathing metered and calm, started to chuckle slightly while Max fumed, incredulously. The old man knowing, at least at this point, he was valuable to Lev Avatov, and therefore, untouchable, even by his progeny, continued to build that chuckle to a throaty, unctuous laugh. A laugh filled with not mirth, but malice. Maggie suspected that this man had never genuinely laughed at anything.

The greasy black marketeer cleared his throat, and stated in an unaffected, almost aloof tone, “Maxim, we are not at that juncture yet, though, are we? You are a whelp, running the wolf’s errand, and, though your bark be impressive, little Max, you’re as impotent and unimportant to me as a shed feather to a mighty raptor. Remove your hands, Mr. Avatov, and see that you keep them to yourself in the future, or your father will surely hear about it.” Max, infuriated and dejected at his words and his own feeling of impotency, complied. Olivier dusted the front of his shirt, adjusted his collar and glared at the younger man. “Just make sure that they are younger this time. The last lot were all around 17 and, although they were beautiful, they do not fetch the highest price.” Maggie had to swallow the bile that had risen to her throat. He was talking about children.

“My father will know what to do.” Max asked with his most steely voice. “How many will you require?” Max asked him, disgustedly.

“I think that 13 is a good number for the information and items your father requested. Ask your father, I believe my offer is very fair.” Maggie who had been backing away from the door found herself near the window, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, until her back came up against something hard. Maggie looked up and over her shoulder right into the beady eyes of the vulture she saw in the window earlier. She gave a startled squeak and promptly knocked over the umbrella stand near the door. Umbrellas and walking sticks went all over the floor with a loud clatter. Maggie froze and heard the men get quiet. She bent over and started to tidy up the floor when they came from beyond the red door.

Mr. Oily proceeded up the aisle in a fury with Max behind him.

“Stupid girl!”, Olivier shouted and moved with his hand raised as if to strike her. His arm met with the vice like grip of a very angry Russian, who proceeded to fling him to the ground.

“You dare raise your hand to her?!!”. If Maggie thought his voice cold before, it was well below sub-zero now. He bent his frame to her and asked, “Are you ok, kiska?”.

“I’m fine,” she said in a timid voice, “the bird startled me, and I tripped over the stand.” She finished lamely.

“Some of these items are priceless!” Came the oily reply from the heap on the floor. The withered man gained his feet once again and brushed off the front of his shirt. ”I would think you would be more careful!” Maggie couldn’t help it; she started to laugh.

Priceless! The only priceless thing in this store, other than what was apparently kept out of sight, was the preposterous statement that had just escaped the old man’s lips. Max joined her, and soon they were both having a good chuckle, not caring in the least about the offense. Olivier stood, an indignant look on his face, but impotence in his stance- he knew he could say or do nothing.

“Can we leave now, Max?” Maggie asked him hopefully.

“Yes, we are leaving,” he turned to Mr. Olivier, “I will contact you tomorrow regarding our business, you will have your answer then.” With that, Max accepted Maggie’s arm and escorted her out the door and down the walkway to the street. “We will be in touch. Keep everything as it is today. For your sake.” He said without looking back. Maggie glanced back to see Mr. Oily standing in the door with a cold expression on his very angry face. As they got further from the oddity shop, Max’s demeanor changed. He went from steel to relaxed in the space of a couple of blocks. He started to notice the night life a little more. It was at this point that Maggie felt it was safe to talk with him.

“Why was Mr. Oily so mad about me knocking over the umbrella stand?” she asked Max.

He laughed and asked her “Mr. Oily?”

She smiled and blushed a little, “He was not a nice man, Max! Skeevy and kind of oily, you know? Unpleasant.” She told him.

Max’s grin grew broader as he looked at her and said with a straight face, “His name is Olivier, but I like Oily better.” Maggie let out a laugh and grabbed Max’s hand. “He does not like women, kiska, and you are never to be alone with him.”

At Max’s pronouncement a shudder went through Maggie’s body, “I don’t think you will have to worry about that, I never want to see that shop again,” pronounced Maggie. “Let’s go have some fun and forget this little adventure,” she told him as they walked towards the French Market. Maggie thought as they walked about the different people who live in this city and the odd culture the city imposed on those willing to seek its thrills. This led her back to the strange man she bumped into earlier, Peter. He seemed to her to be typical of the city; mostly kind and helpful, with maybe a bit of a sarcastic bent.

And fashion challenged, she thought… definitely fashion challenged. He was right about one thing, though, Maggie thought to herself... these shoes are killing me!