In the afternoon, having slept well and eaten, I came out to Fedya in an excellent frame of mind.
– Let’s go for a drive, little brother! – I flung out the joyful call.
Fedya had nothing against it. With the quiet bass of a started engine he answered with unconditional agreement and rolled off toward the center. There, on the brightly lit thoroughfares, I had to seek out and recruit a female companion. Storming the dacha alone seemed a reckless, stupid business. Mamon’s life had taught him a thing or two. The fence of his dacha was decorated with barbed wire. Television cameras stood around the perimeter. Without a helper, or rather without a female helper, managing it did not appear possible.
I recalled the conversations I had overheard and the information that flowed from them. Mamon liked young girls with a fourth-size bust and, on top of all that, short and thin. An intricate combination, testifying to maniacal inclinations in the object. Having found a girlfriend with the above-stated parameters, I could count on coordinated action: mine outside the dacha, hers inside. Playing four hands, we could get to the seal with the password without any problem.
Only where was I to find one like that?
I cruised along Tverskaya as though along Shota Rustaveli, back and forth, looking the girls over. I talked with the madams, drove into little courtyards and got dizzy from the abundance of live goods. They were all there – brash Ukrainian girls with gold teeth, provincials on temporary permits in tracksuits, scrawny trade-school girls in poison-bright jackets, adventure-seekers laced into leather, doped-up junkies, tipsy alcoholics and simply girls, ladies, women… The one I needed in form and content I could not find. On the other hand, in the course of the search the following paradox came to light: the girls for sale hung about exclusively on the odd-numbered side of the street. The opposite side was deserted and chaste. Reflecting on the topographical oddities I had discovered, I parked Fedya and took to inspecting the dens of iniquity on foot: “Night Flight”, “Cosmos”, “Club Moskovsky”, “Intourist”, “National”… Everywhere they were glad to see me and the crackle of banknotes in my pocket, nowhere was there the specimen I required. Damn the lot of them!
Closer to midnight my ardor ran dry. Thoroughly upset, I made it back to Fedya. Scratched the back of my head, ruffled the hair on my crown, spat at my feet. My mood was ruined beyond repair. The wretches! The sluts! Oh, I’ll show you! I spat at my feet once more and decided that morning is wiser than evening. In reserve there remained the ringing round of the outfits that place advertisements in the “Leisure for Gentlemen” section. A last resort. Again, for the third time, a hearty pah!
Settling into the car and starting the engine, I slid an angry glance over a group of girls in mini fur coats (the uniform of the sisterhood for sale), then further on… Her! She was standing in a leather jacket three meters away from me! Arm in arm with a fellow of Caucasian origin! Who was flagging down the cars going past!
Looked as though the girl would be driven off to some hook-up flat right now, and farewell to Mamon’s dream. Where on earth had she been hanging about two hours ago, when I was here like a maniac sniffing over the whole damned horde, all but looking into their teeth?
I rolled resolutely up to the sweet pair:
– Where to?
– The Three Stations, brother.
– Get in.
He and she loaded themselves into the back seat.
I pulled out into the far left lane and raced off in the indicated direction. Along the way I regretted very keenly that I hadn’t brought a pistol with me. Without a weapon, separating two people fused together in an erotic pose was problematic. All that remained was to observe in the rearview mirror the greedy hand tormenting a weighty bust. The bust bulged insolently through the jacket and overturned every notion of female proportions. It was galling that this outstanding beauty would now be led by a simple Caucasian lad off to platform number nine somewhere and used there for its intended purpose while waiting for the suburban train. What to do? Wait until the lady had worked off her fee, or withdraw her from circulation at once? With the help of strong fists? Or by threatening with words?…
During the thinking process I glanced into the mirror from time to time and collided with her unblinking stare, straight at me. A hard, whole stare. Just what was needed.
At the final destination the problem resolved itself. The dzhigit pointed to a group of people of indeterminate appearance by the car park.
– Eh, little brother. We’ll rent a flat from them now and drive on, yes? – he either asked or stated affirmatively. Just in case, I decided the proposition had been interrogative, and nodded my head in agreement. At the same time I held my own excellent opinion. As soon as the client had got out of the car and headed for the brokers, I turned round to the girlfriend on the back seat:
– Want to make three hundred bucks?
– For what? – the girl asked calmly.
– For the same thing, but with me.
– Let’s go.
I stepped on the gas. We drove off. The dzhigit stayed behind at the car park waving his arms and expressing himself wrathfully. It seemed the money had been paid by him in advance. Next time he’ll pay on delivery, if he wants to…