Page 56 of True North
Most of the time he liked work, or at least didn’t mind it. He could listen to music and space out. But nights like tonight made him hate everything about his job. He could be at home on the couch with JT right now.
He washed a few of dickhead’s pots to appease him, unloaded the rack in the machine, loaded in a rack of silverware. A server popped his head into the kitchen and gesticulated frantically at Misha, so he picked up an empty tray and went back out into the dining room. Never a dull moment.
The same customer was watching him again, a fixed, focused stare that made Misha antsy. He kept his head down and focused on clearing the table. He could see the man from the corner of his eye, still watching him: a beefy guy with a shaved head. Misha didn’t recognize him and couldn’t come up with any reason for the guy to be staring at him like that. He booked it back to the kitchen as fast as he could.
Brandon came in a little while later as Misha was loading an empty rack with plates. “Can I talk to you outside,” he asked in an undertone, jabbing his thumb toward the back door.
“Yeah, fine.” Misha stuffed his earbuds in his pocket and wiped his hands on his apron. He didn’t know what Brandon wanted, but either it was really important, or Brandon was an idiot who couldn’t tell how slammed the kitchen was.
The evening air was a cool relief after the steamy heat of the dishwashing station. Misha kicked over one of the crates the cooks used for their smoke breaks and took a seat. A glorious sunset turned the western horizon pink and orange. JT was probably watching it from the dock, beer in hand.
Brandon didn’t sit. “Some guy’s asking about you. Wants to know how long you’ve been working here. He straight-up asked me if you’re Russian. What’s going on, Misha?”
Misha’s insides turned to ice water. “What? I don’t know.”
“He seems to know a lot about you.” Brandon eyed Misha suspiciously. “Is there going to be trouble?”
Misha rose to his feet, feeling vulnerable in his seated position now that this conversation had turned contentious. “I don’t know why he asked! I never seen him before. What else he said?”
“That was pretty much it. But it didn’t sound good.”
Misha wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his hands against his ribcage, feeling the shape of himself, bony and mortal. The pavement was slightly sticky beneath his feet. He thought of the hard, intent stare of the bald man in the dining room and was certain that was the same man who had asked Brandon about him. Misha still had no idea who he was, but Brandon seemed convinced there was something sinister about his interest, and Misha found he agreed. If the man was a shifter or a fellow Russian, he would have said that, or approached Misha directly.
“I don’t want any trouble at my restaurant,” Brandon said, after a few moments, when Misha didn’t reply. “You’re a good worker and the cooks like you. I want to be able to keep you on.”
The threat was implicit but clear. Misha had to make this situation go away or lose his job. He didn’t know what was going on, though, or why, which limited his ability to do anything about it.
“I understand,” he said. “Sorry for trouble.”
“Okay, well.” Brandon nodded like they’d resolved something. “Let’s get back to work.”
Their five-minute conversation had put Misha even more irredeemably behind. He put his earbuds back in, turned up the volume, and cranked through racks of dishes as fast as he could go. If tables needed busing, Brandon could stir himself from his office and help out. Misha washed a full sink of pots, then another. The constant flow of dishes from the dining room finally began to slow as the dinner rush ebbed. He kept on spraying, scrubbing, and sanitizing, and finally had enough breathing room that he was able to stop and drink a glass of water. He had sweated clear through his shirt.
At last, the night came to an end. Misha washed a few final pots and storage containers that the cooks brought him as they cleared their stations. He unloaded one last rack of plates, drained his sinks, and stuffed his apron in a plastic bag to take home to wash. Then, finally, he took his phone from his pocket and smiled at the notification on the screen. JT was waiting in the parking lot, ready to take him home.
He went out through the front door. “Goodnight,” he called to the hostess as he passed, and she glanced up from counting the register to smile at him. The bell on the door jingled as he went out into the quiet night.
A cop car sat in front of the restaurant, its headlights on. Misha stopped dead. Every instinct told him to run, but reason told him running was probably the worst thing he could do.
A man unfolded himself from the driver’s side. His badge glinted in the light. “Mikhail Kozlov?”
Misha’s stomach dropped to the pavement beneath his feet. Nobody in Sault Ste. Marie knew his surname, not even JT. Somehow, the subject had never come up.
“We need you to come back to the station with us, please,” the officer said. “You’re under arrest. Do you understand?”
There it was. Misha had run, but not far enough. Toronto had caught up with him at last.
His eyes darted to JT’s truck, parked at the far end of the lot. Part of him hoped that JT would come running to the rescue and use his influence to make this problem go away. He knew by now that JT was a local hero and held a lot of sway in town. Most of him hoped that JT would do the sensible thing and stay out of it. Misha had ruined his own life long before he ever met JT, and he didn’t want JT to be tarnished by Misha’s sins. He didn’t want JT to know what he’d done. He didn’t want JT to think any less of him.
He could shift and run away. That had worked before. The officer had a sidearm, but Misha could gamble on him being too surprised to react before Misha had put enough distance between them that an accurate shot wouldn’t be easy.
He knew he wasn’t going to run. In a way, he was relieved. He could stop wondering and worrying. He didn’t have to do anything at all, now. He could rest, and let the world do what it would.
The officer was watching him warily. He took a step toward Misha. “Do you understand? Mr. Kozlov—”
“Yeah, I come with you,” Misha said, and let the officer tell him his rights and put him in the car.
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