Castor

Vlad was a limp, pale Ukrainian boss who had always reminded Tobi of a drowned sailor brought up from his shipwreck. His eyes were not blue, but washed of all color, like an infinite tank of clean water, and his skin had that translucent quality of flesh that had been underwater far too long. His downy white-blond hair lay flat on his scalp as though perpetually soaked and he moved with the slow fluidity of a scuba diver.

“Ve hyev problym.” The boss’s accent was a little difficult to follow, but Tobi thought it best not to ask for whatever he said to be repeated.

“We do,” he replied, nodding slowly, trying to feel out the direction of the visit.

“A byig problym Myistyer Ryeektare,” Vlad continued, rolling one of the gold rings on his left hand around his scarred middle finger. “Do you knyow vat dis iys?”

“Uh- that people are losing respect for the bosses?” Obvious sucking-up sometimes worked better when there was a slight language barrier. Sometimes not. Thankfully this was one of the former occasions. Vlad ‘huh’ed, and smirked contentedly across the table at him, leaning back against the leather booth.

“Thyat is ‘nother problyem,” he allowed, nodding slightly. “Hyowyever, dere is much byigger one.”

“And what’s that Vlad?”

Vlad glared at him for a moment, and Tobi tried to act as casually as if they were just discussing the menu, despite that he could feel tiny beads of sweat growing on his palms and neck

“I am byeing robed.”

Robed? Tobi’s mind flicked frantically through similar sounding words that would make more sense than robed. He doubted that Vlad would complain to him about his dressing gown. Rabed? Ribed? Rebed?

“You’re being robbed?”

“Yes Ryeektare, I yam.” Obviously, this “problyem” was weighing heavily on Vlad’s mind, as he began twisting his ring much more agitatedly. “I dyo no’ lyke beying robed, Rychtar.”

“I wouldn’t either Vlad,” Tobi replied, trying to lean back in his seat as though his pulse wasn’t racing at a concerning level. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if his heart suddenly gave out, and was overcome with the mad urge to laugh at the image of Vlad blinking in shock down at Tobi’s own twitching corpse. But he swallowed the impulse, focusing on looking comfortably attentive. “What can I do to help you out with this probly- problem?”

Tobi’s heart sank as Vlad gave him a slow smile, pulling out a folder and slapping it down between them. “The thyef gyoes only by “Napoleyon” on the blyak markyet,” he explained, flipping the folder open and shuffling the reports inside. “Thyese arr ayll the thyefts Napoleyon hyas tyakyen cryedeet for.”

“How do we know it’s the same guy- or- do we know if it’s a man?” Tobi asked, picking up the stack and thumbing through the papers to scan the locations of each theft. The names of various important political offices, museums, hotels and private residences glared up at him, increasing his feeling of foreboding.

“Nyo eedeeah.” Vlad began tapping his thumbnail against the table’s smooth grained wood top. “Bot thyey liv cyard.” He flicked a small black business card across to Tobi, who caught it, reading the silver flourished script aloud.

“Congratulations,” he read incredulously. “You have just had something of fabulously unnecessary worth stolen from you by your galaxy’s most talented cat burglar. If you wish to hang said thief by the throat, please kindly jump from the most convenient shuttle at full speed. Yours, Napoleon.” He dropped the card back onto the table and looked up, bracing himself for the worst. “What do you need from me Boss?”