Nikita

 “Nikita is a perfectly respectable businessman,” said the man in the silk suit, as he sat down at my table. He reached across, took my lighter and pack of cigarettes, and lit himself a smoke. “I got no idea why you reporters make up so much stuff about him.” Both the pack and the lighter disappeared into his pocket, but I didn’t need to look at the two, powerfully built, unsmiling giants who stood behind him, slowly and rhythmically grinding one fist into the open palm of their other hand, to know that objecting might prove harmful to my health. “I swear that Nikita is nothing more than the President and founder of the Waterfront Honest Businessman’s Benevolent Association,” the man said.

“You swear on your mother’s grave?” I asked, rather recklessly. 

“What?” said the man, sharply, before relaxing once more and giving me a chilling smile. “Yeah, yeah. That’s right, ‘on me mudder’s grave.’” He gave a wheezing laugh, which sounded as if it was seldom used. “You’re a funny guy.” But the look he bestowed on me suggested that ‘funny’ was likely synonymous with ‘skating on thin ice’ in his thesaurus.


-- 30 --

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