"Sorry for such short notice, Doctor Newsome, but it's very important I speak with you."
"Fortunately, time's no problem," Doctor Newsome said. "I'm off tomorrow and plan to do absolutely nothing. Would you like something to drink?"
"No, thank you. I'll try not to take up too much of your time."
"Have a seat," Doctor Newsome said. "I'll just step over here and pour me a glass of bourbon." Doctor Newsome approached the bar. Readied a glass and poured bourbon into it. "Now what's this all about, mister Strahm?"
As Jack sat in a chair without removing his coat, he said, "My son, Lawrence."
Doctor Newsome sipped his bourbon then asked, "How… can I be of help?" Doctor Newsome appeared to be genuinely interest as he sat across from Jack in a wing-back lounge chair which contoured to Newsome's slender frame as though it were tailored for him, it was obvious to Jack that was Newsome's favorite chair. Jack said, "Did anyone approach you, Doctor Newsome at the time of my son's death?"
"Anyone like whom? Doctor Newsome asked, puzzled.
"Anyone," Jack reiterated.
"No," Newsome said. "Where is this going, Mister Strahm?"
"Jack waited as he studied Doctor Newsome, his body language, measuring his demeanor, looking into his eyes for any signs or tells. "Was my son murdered?" Jack finally said, more an accusation posed as a question.
Doctor Newsome's expression went grim with surprise as opposed to guilt. He shifted uneasily to the edge of his chair, placed his glass of unfinished bourbon on an acrylic tabletop by his chair and said, "Forgive my ignorance, mister Strahm… but… I… I thought you were already well aware of the circumstances of your son's death. You read the autopsy report, did you not? That was a favor I granted you without you having to request a copy."
"I did." Jack said.
"I… don't understand then," Doctor Newsome continued. "Did something of late develop that would make you think my findings weren't correct?"
"I'm not at liberty to go into that with you," Jack said, getting to his feet.
"Jesus," Newsome said, ponderously. "I assure you, mister Strahm, if my findings had pointed in that direction, I most definitely would have had to report it as such. This occupation has been my life for over twenty-five years. I would never jeopardize my job and reputation by filing an inaccurate and false report. Do you realize the trouble…"
"I'm sorry, "Jack interrupted. I'm not accusing you of any wrongdoing. I'll leave you to your evening."
Doctor Newsome stood up. "I… again, Mister Strahm, I'm sorry for your loss."
Jack had heard and saw all he needed to. He and Newsome headed toward the door. Jack stopped as Newsome placed his hand on the doorknob.
"You're likely to get a visit from some strangers," Jack said. "Men or women in suits. They'll be from the government or the military or both. You can be honest with them. You have nothing to hide or worry about."
"Okay." Newsome was at a loss for words and Jack detected that his breathing had quickened when his only reply was, "Okay".
"It will be alright, Jack assured him, as he placed a reassuring but hand hand on Newsome's shoulder. "Thank you, Doctor Newsome. Good night."
Newsome opened the door and Jack stepped through it.
"Goodnight, Mister Strahm." Newsome replied uneasily.
Kuscova's was a quaint bar located in Brooklyn. Even though the sign on the wall read: NO SMOKING. It was obviously ignored with no consequences. A handful of patrons occupied the place. There was a man and woman seated in a booth, eating. Another couple at a table talking, nursing drinks. Three men were engaged in a game of darts and one man shooting a game of pool solo.
Dorothea (aka Michele' pronounced Mee-sha-lay) sat on a stool at the bar clad in a brown fur jacket. She was overdressed and seemed a little out of place but accepted.
"Would you like something to drink?" The man asked her politely in a deep voice and Russian accent. Early fifties, casually dressed, neat. He wore a three-quarter length black leather coat that draped broad shoulders and thick bulging arms. His red silk shirt was opened three buttons down partially exposing a hairless tattooed chest and a 24-karat pure gold chain. He was built like an aged boxer and had a face etcher-sketched with lines of a man that lived a hard life, eyes that held a coldness warmed only at the anticipation of carnal lust. He spoke gently but with the firm confidence of a general. For Michele' there was something instantly electric about the man.
She eyed him up and down and replied, "Wine. Chardonnay. One ice cube." As she peeled out of her fur jacket with Boris' aid. "Thank you." she said softly. Boris hung it on the back of the chair on which she sat. "A bottle of water with that wine," Michele' informed the bartender.
"Sorry, Miss, the bartender apologized. "Only have tap. There's a vending machine there with bottled water."
"No problem," Boris intervened. "I will get it."
"I would appreciate that," Michele' said.
Boris returned with the water just as the bartender placed Michele's order on the counter in front of her.
"Anything for you, sir?" The bartender asked.
"Vodka," Boris said without taking his eyes off of Michele'. "What is your name?"
Michele' sipped the wine after which she answered, "Michele'."
"That is a beautiful name for an equally beautiful woman."
"Thank you. And what is your name?"
"Boris. Boris Popov. Are you alone, Michele'?
"Not now," she said, smiling flirtatiously.
Boris smiled as well. "Michele' your real name? I have never seen you around here."
"I'm all over. And why would that not be my real name, Boris? Is that your real name?"
"Of course." Boris paused, then asked, "Your pimp, do you have one?"
Michele' looked him up and down surprisingly unoffended. "I don't require one, Boris. Is that the kind of women that frequent this place?"
"My apologies. Maybe. Are you a cop?"
"Want to see my badge?" she said playfully. No. I am not a cop." Michele' sipped more wine. She was as calm as a tropical summer morning and displayed no signs of nervousness or fear. Boris was smitten, curious at the same time. He drank down his vodka in one swallow, straight faced.
"You are quite different from any woman I have ever met."
"Of course I am, Boris. Now what?
"You just met me," Boris said. Are you not afraid. Worried?"
"Should I be?"
"Not at all.
"Besides, Michele' went on," I am more protected than you know, Boris. And minus a pimp."
Boris smiled. "Would you like to go somewhere, Michele'?"
Michele' finished her wine. "Let us go somewhere, Boris." He helped her into her coat and they exited Kuscova's.