The Witness

medical school, then, starting an internship.” Even the thought of it depressed her. “But I don’t want to talk about school unless I have to.”
    “Boys only want to talk about themselves, anyway. Oh, God, we’re like almost there.” Julie opened her purse, checked her face in a little mirror, freshened her lip gloss, so Elizabeth did the same. “Can you get the cab? I got a hundred out of my mother’s cash stash, but otherwise I’m tapped out.”
    “Of course.”
    “I can pay you back. My dad’s an easy touch.”
    “I don’t mind paying.” Elizabeth took out the cab fare, calculated the tip.
    “Oh, man, I’ve got goose bumps. I can’t believe I’m going to Warehouse 12! It’s totally the bomb!”
    “What do we do now?” Elizabeth asked as they climbed out of the cab.
    “We get in line. They don’t let everybody in, you know, even with ID.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s a hot club, so they turn off the dorks and dogs. But they always let in the hot chicks. And we are so the hot chicks.”
    It was a long line, and a warm night. Traffic grumbled by, rumbling over the conversations of others who waited. Elizabeth took in the moment—the sounds, the smells, the sights. Saturday night, she thought, and she was queuing up at a hot club with beautiful people. She was wearing a new dress—a
red
dress—and high, high heels that made her feel tall and powerful.
    No one looked at her as if she didn’t belong.
    The man checking IDs at the door wore a suit and shoes with a high shine. His dark hair, slicked back in a ponytail, left his face unframed. A scar rode his left cheekbone. A stud glinted in his right earlobe.
    “He’s a bouncer,” Elizabeth whispered to Julie. “I did some research. He removes people who cause trouble. He looks very strong.”
    “All we have to do is get by him and get in.”
    “The club’s owned by Five Star Entertainment. That’s headed by Mikhail and Sergei Volkov. It’s believed they have ties to the Russian Mafia.”
    Julie did her eye roll. “The Mafia’s Italian. You know,
The Sopranos
?”
    Elizabeth didn’t know what singing had to do with the Mafia. “Since the fall of Communism in the Soviet Union, organized crime in Russia has been on the rise. Actually, it was already very organized, and headed by the SS, but—”
    “Liz. Save the history lesson.”
    “Yes. Sorry.”
    “Just pass him your ID, and keep talking to me.” Julie pitched her voice up again as they wound their way to the door. “Dumping that loser was the best thing I’ve done in months. Did I tell you he called me three times today? God, as if.”
    A quick smile for the bouncer, and Julie held out her ID as she continued her conversation with Elizabeth. “I told him forget it. He can’t make time for me, somebody else will.”
    “It’s best not to commit to one person, certainly not at this stage.”
    “You got that.” Julie held out her hand for the club stamp. “And I’m ready to check out the rest of the field. First round’s on me.”
    She stepped around the bouncer while he performed the same check and stamp on Elizabeth, and her grin was so huge Elizabeth wondered it didn’t swallow the man whole.
    “Thank you,” she said, when he stamped the back of her hand.
    “You ladies have fun.”
    “We are the fun,” Julie told him, then grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her into the wall of sound.
    “Oh my God, we’re in!” Julie let out a squeal, mostly drowned out by the music, then bounced on her heels as she gave Elizabeth a hug.
    Stunned by the embrace, Elizabeth jerked stiff, but Julie only bounced again. “You’re a genius.”
    “Yes.”
    Julie laughed, eyes a little wild. “Okay, table, Cosmos, dance and scope.”
    Elizabeth hoped the music covered the pounding of her heart as it had Julie’s squeal. So many people. She wasn’t used to being with so many people in one place. Everyone moving or talking while the music pumped, pumped, pumped, a flood saturating every breath of air. People jammed the dance floor, shaking, spinning, sweating. They crowded into booths, around tables, at the long curve of the stainless-steel bar.
    She was determined to be “chilly,” but a sweater wouldn’t be necessary. Body heat pulsed everywhere.
    Getting through the crowd—dodging, weaving, bumping bodies—kicked Elizabeth’s heart rate to a gallop. Anxiety clutched at her throat, pressed on her chest. Julie’s death grip on her hand was the only thing that