Pipsqueak by Brian M. Wiprud Read Free Book Online

was a veritable gorgon who didn’t put up with any of his nonsense.
    “But of course.”
    “Luba will take you back, after you left her?”
    “Otto go to beach, not leave.”
    “Well, how come you’re not with Luba tonight, then?”
    Otto put an arm around my shoulder. “Garv and Yan-gie not married, yes? Veemin, when marry, animal not same. Not like rabbit, or voodchuck.” He squinted in thought at his beer. “Luba like bear. When vinter stop, like bear very angry. Except Luba not bite, she throw. Maybe deesh, maybe chair, maybe knife, and—”
    “I get the idea.” I slid out from under his arm and the stench of tar plus nicotine. “She threw you out. But you can’t tell me you came all the way back here to see Luba.”
    Otto stroked his pointy little beard, grinning to himself. “Ah, Garv, I miz my friends.”
    Smiling, I patted him on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Otto.” I put my empty mug in the sink and headed for the bedroom.
    I sat on the edge of the bed, and Angie said sleepily, “Guess who’s back in town?”
    “Our favorite Russian gnome?” I peeled off a sneaker. “Yeah, I found him stretched out on the bar. Like the good ol’ days.” The other shoe dropped.
    “Well, I couldn’t turn him away, Garth, could I?”
    I stared up at the woolly buffalo head facing the bed.
    “Could I?” Angie kicked me from under the sheets.
    “You? I guess not.”

Chapter 8

    O f course, I was up half the night explaining all about little brother Nicholas, and Angie was afforded plenty of time to digest the whole story and formulate an opinion by the time we sat down to one of Otto’s breakfasts the next morning.
    While Otto isn’t what I’d call a chef, he is a fine cook of various Slavic and a few Afghani dishes. This morning it was paprika poached eggs in a cheese sauce on potato pancakes. On the side were freshly baked biscuits resembling scones. And no Otto breakfast is complete without fruit piroshkis, little dumplings bursting with berries. Decked out in my red and white barbecue apron that said CHEF , DAMMIT , he swirled around the kitchen stirring, mashing, frying, serving, clearing, and finally washing, all the while humming one of those noble, soaring Soviet anthems.
    While Otto has a myriad of less endearing traits, these are almost evenly offset by his agreeable domestic functions. When in our employ, there are no tasks he disdains. If he sees that we are running out of professional jewelry/taxidermy duties for him, we soon find him waxing the floors, cleaning windows, regrouting the tub, ironing shirts, or cooking dinner. He even rotated the tires on the Lincoln. After a couple of weeks of that, you wonder how on earth people live without full-time domestic help.
    Angie and I’d finished our meal and were dawdling over coffee.
    “So?” Angie said, apropos of nothing of which I was aware.
    I glanced up at her from my latest Yasco Taxidermy Supply catalog and sipped coffee. I didn’t answer.
    “So, what about Nicholas?”
    “Nothing about Nicholas,” I shrugged.
    “He’s your brother, Garth. You have to talk to him.”
    “Nope.”
    “Darling—”
    “Angie, this is not open to discussion.” My coffee cup landed on the table with a thud. “If I want to shun my brother, that’s my right. I don’t tell you how to deal with your siblings.”
    “As an orphan, I never had the luxury.”
    “Yeah, well . . .” My phone rang, and I jumped up to get it.
    “Got your blue jay ready,” a voice boomed. “Wanna come git him?”
    “Sure, Dudley, be over right away.”
    “Got the ring?”
    “I’ve got the ring.”
    “What you waitin’ for, then?!” He hung up.
    “Blue jay ready?” Angie asked. I grabbed my sport coat.
    “Yup. He needs me to come over right away to get it, before he goes, uh . . .” I snapped my fingers, searching for the destination. “. . . back home to ol’ Virginny.” I stood behind Angie’s chair and kissed her on the head, giving her shoulders a