*****
Nicki pulled her collar up higher. She was glad she'd worn a scarf. The wind was blowing off the ocean and whistling between the restaurant buildings on the seafront. Only the gulls were enjoying themselves as they surfed the gusts high in the sky.
The Crab and Lobster seemed like a nice place to eat. Sitting on the seafront, it looked like a giant beach hut. The wooden boards in the facade were painted yellow, and the small cross beam windows were white. The door was maroon and contained a ship’s porthole. There was a balcony running the length of the building where clients could eat in summer, and its roof was adorned with lobster pots and pieces of fishing net.
Nicki climbed two steps to the front door and looked through the porthole. It was as cozy looking inside as it was outside. There were about twenty round tables, all with red and white checkered table clothes, and a long bar down the left-hand side with wooden stools in front. The ceiling was covered in sailing paraphernalia. Oars, lobster pots, fishing net, anchors, even a brass ship’s bell hung down from the ceiling into the middle of the room.
She went inside. She noticed a couple sitting at a table in the far corner. They looked like they were making up after a fight. The woman had a blotchy face and the man had a hurt look on his face, but they were holding hands across the table. There were only two other people in the restaurant. The waitress was pretty and only about eighteen. Why such a pretty young woman would wear her hair in dreadlocks was beyond Nicki. The other person was a handsome blond man of about twenty-five. He was tall, and his T-shirt clung to a physique he obviously spent a lot of time honing. Unusual for the time of year, he was wearing jean shorts that showed off his long, tanned legs. Nicki wondered what it would be like to stroke the soft-looking blonde hairs that covered them.
“Coffee please,” she said, sitting on one of the barsstools. The waitress nodded. Nicki reached down to her bag and took out a notepad.
“You're a reporter then?” the waitress inquired.
“Do I look like a reporter?” she replied. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white blouse covered by a gray cardigan. Hardly a giveaway.
“The notepad,” she said. “Plus we get hundreds of journalists in here.” She put a white cup and saucer down in front of Nicki.
“Why so many?”
“They're all after a mafia story.” She picked up a tea towel and started to polish wine glasses.
“Doesn't the mafia own most of Brighton Beach? Sokolov owns this restaurant.”
“I have no idea. I just come and do my job and go home again. Andrey's my boss, and I'm sure he's not mafia.” She pointed at the blond man. When he heard his name, he looked up from his newspaper.
“Talking about me again, Mel?” he joked. He got up and wandered over to Nicki. “I'm Andrey. It's a bit boring in here at this time of the day. Things don't usually get going until after 7 p.m.”
“That's okay. I only dropped in for a coffee. It's a lovely restaurant.” He could have been a Californian surfer, she thought. His fresh face was tanned, and his blond hair cradled his face in long waves.
“Yes, I love it. It's become part of me. There's always an opportunity to meet new people, like yourself.” He leaned on the bar and put his foot on the brass foot rail. “So are you?” he asked.
“Am I what?” she replied, looking into his blue eyes.
“What Mel said. On the lookout for a mafia story?”
“Okay, I am a journalist. A freelancer. That's someone who works—”
“I know what a freelancer is,” he said, interrupting. “If you're looking for a mafia story, you're fifteen years too late. All the shootings have stopped, and now it's a respectable area.” He laughed. “In fact, the only bad thing that can happen to you around here is a seagull messing on your head.”
“I don't know. There are secrets everywhere if you look for them. You, for example. You sound Russian, so you have a story to tell. Why did you come here? Where are you from? How many girlfriends have you had? I bet a lot of female readers would enjoy reading about you.” She put her hand on his arm, as if she would be one of those readers.
“I'm afraid it would be a disappointing story. Tell you what, you tell me how many boyfriends you've had, and I'll tell you how many girlfriends I've had.” He looked pleased with himself.
“One,” she said without hesitation.
“I don't believe you. A hot woman like you has only had one boyfriend? Get out of here.”
“What do you take me for?” she jested. “Are you suggesting I may be loose?”
“Of course not. Sixteen.”
“You've had sixteen girlfriends?” she exclaimed. “I don't believe you. You're exaggerating, trying to be macho.”
“Sixteen not including the one-night stands,” he bragged. “Not too bad for a simple boy from St. Petersburg, isn’t it?”