Chapter 27

Arsy smiled his signature lady-killer smile at pretty much every female he ran into at Riga’s famed Arts Academy. He wasn’t looking for love—at least not now and not here. Some goon had threatened to burn his place down if he wouldn’t agree to romance an art student named Aina Lapina. He had been told that Aina was the beloved granddaughter of mafia kingpin, Juris Lapins.  Juris had been Arsy’s boss. Until he wasn’t. Now Arsy had a new boss. A rival Mafioso fighting for Juris’ turf.

How he wished he had never become involved in this criminal world. He had been sucked in with the promise of art commissions and riches. He needed money. How else could he keep his art alive? It’s what he lived for, worked for. Now it was too late to simply walk away from the gangsters. He had become much too involved. So, here he was on this sunny fall day, scouring the halls of Latvia’s best art college, looking for a girl he had been ordered to seduce.

Swilling his beer in the café of the academy, Arsy had the insane notion that his girl would just appear. His readings with Madam Zenunda had reinforced his belief in magic. Somehow the one he was seeking would be drawn to him while he sat there, dejected and hopeless—and soon drunk. He wondered if he were to just give up and place his head on one of those café tables. Would someone come and give him a helping hand?

Someone did. But it wasn’t his girl. Liga was in charge of the café. She was also the wife of the vice-director of the Academy of Arts—having beaten off several ladies vying for that position. Even though she was well on the wrong side of forty, Liga’s vibe was still youngish. She was very talkative (actually a wellspring of gossip) and very ambitious. She wanted more out of life (deserved more out of life) than to cater to these spoiled kids who thought they were better than anyone else. But, for the moment, she had to stay put.

The rush at the café was over. Liga had wiped down the small bistro tables and emptied out overflowing ashtrays. Now it was time to relax.   She reached into her pocket for her cigarettes, fingered one out. And  was surprised when the handsome young man who was still drinking his beer leapt to his feet, pulled out his lighter and approached to light her cigarette. She smiled at him and inhaled the smoke as if it were heavenly ambrosia.

Her smile was not coy or coquettish but still laden with sensuality and promise. She was certainly not a student (there wasn’t an adult education program at the academy) but certainly had been demoted as spouse of one of the big shots at the academy. Why was she doing this menial job while her husband had such a good position? Clearly her husband wasn’t satisfactory—financially, for starters.

The sultry voice was both maternal and seductive.

“I haven’t seen you here before? Are you a student?”

Arsy felt like taking a brave risk. Telling her everything. And getting her help in locating the Mafioso princess. Still, something in Liga’s demeanor told him she couldn’t be trusted. And how did Ivo get a job here anyway? Arsy still heard him clattering pots and pans in the back kitchen. How did he get placed here? To spy on Arsy?

“No, I’m a journalist,” Arsy lied.

Exhaling a billow of smoke, Liga smiled indulgently (as if she didn’t believe him) and asked,  “Who do you write for?”

“I’m free-lance.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

Arsy had to think fast. He had to invent a story. He looked around the room as if for someone to come help him. Madame Zenunda?

“An American magazine has given me an assignment.” That was pretty noncommittal. Pretty general. He hoped she would back off.

“Which one?”

Arsy frowned. What the hell was her problem?  What does she want from me?

“At the moment my assignment is confidential.”

“What are you writing about? Is that confidential too?”

She was playing with him. “Yes, it is,” Arsy said firmly. He had to take charge of this conversation. “And who’s that fellow banging around in the kitchen? He looks out of place here.” A Mafiosi goon parading as a school janitor. That was a new one for Arsy.

“No, no he does a good job. By the way,” Liga said with a conspiratorial grin, “there’s still fresh coffee. With a shot of brandy? Are you interested?”

Arsy breathed a sigh of relief. “You read my mind but hold the coffee.”

As Liga got up for the coffee Arsy noticed her shapely body, encased in a tight black sweater and brown slacks. She was stacked—to use a colloquialism. But not his type. He thought fondly of Mrs Zito. She was no spring chicken either but was still warm and alluring.

Arsy was pleased Liga had decided to lay off—at least for the moment. He noticed that Liga had stubbed out her cigarette. Ever the gentleman, he rummaged in his pockets intending to offer her one of his. Damn! The crumpled pack was empty again.

Time for his lady-killer smile. Liga smiled back and reached into her purse. So few people these days enjoyed smoking. So many had quit. But these two hadn’t. They both fired up, blew streams of smoke at each other. Liga enjoyed her spiked coffee, Arsy savored the generous dose of brandy. They lifted their drinks, toasting someone or something. The mood had become quite companionable in this cozy, dark, little café.

But Arsy hadn’t eaten anything that day and the alcohol made him slightly dizzy. It was time to cut to the chase.

“Listen. Do you know the students here? It’s a woman’s magazine I’m working for and I’m supposed to interview several girls about lifestyles —how they feel about a career in art, about marriage.” Arsy couldn’t believe his own spiel, making up bullshit as he went along. At least he was able to think on his feet. No one had ever accused him of being the dullest tool in the shed.

Despite Arsy’s brilliant account, Liga had turned away from him. She got up from her chair to greet a trio of lovely young things who had just sauntered into the café.

“Ciao ladies! Just in time to meet an international journalist.” Her smile was ironic. With a knowing look, she turned back to Arsy.

“What did you say your name was?”

Unfazed, Arsy replied, “I didn’t.”

The brandy had made Arsy surly and sure of himself. He almost shouted BINGO when he heard one of the girls calling the other girl Aina.

And, just like that, Arsy came out of his daze. He used his killer smile one more time. And his most persuasive voice,

“Aina, Aina! What a pretty name. I have a sister called Aina. She’s very pretty and intelligent. Tell me, Aina, would you like to be interviewed? It’s for a magazine called Mademoiselle. You may have heard of it. It’s American but with a French name. It’s a very sophisticated magazine.”

Arsy savored the fortunate stroke of serendipity which had led him to Aina. He would waste no time. He’d tell her what the goon was after. He’d warn this pretty girl. Who then would warn her grandfather. And God only knew what would happen then. But before that, he had to make sure he had the right Aina.

The pretty young woman blushed. Arsy was pleased he had pulled that out of his hat. Mademoiselle? How the hell had he come up with that? But no matter. It worked. He hoped Ivo had been watching from somewhere in the back kitchen where he was still banging around, washing dishes or sorting garbage.