When a rotund man wearing a green smoking jacket over a maroon vest the size of a tablecloth paraded through the restaurant with his entourage and stopped right in front of their table, Jessica drooled vodka down her chin. With three shots in her, she found Mr. Popov amusing, with his foppish comb-over, manicured nails, and round belly, and she couldn’t stop giggling.
“I’m Vladimir Popov.” The fat man extended his hand to Nick.
“You mean like priest in Russian?” Jessica asked.
priest “We’re not in Russia,” Popov said. “Who’s this little girl and why is she here?”
“My apologies, Mr. Popov,” Nick said. “Let me introduce you.”
“You should have come alone, Mr. Schilling,” Popov said.
“Should I go wait in the car?” Jessica asked. Vladimir Popov would have been one scary dude—if he didn’t
