August 1, 1993
Sunday
2:45 PM
Chicha was sitting in the same place, in the same way. Looked like he hadn’t budged since the previous evening. Though I knew that wasn’t true. Zhorik told me that, at his prompting, Chicha had gotten his act together. He’d put together a crew of former Krasny Proletary athletes and was cruising Moscow, shaking down street vendors for a cut. The income was small, so not everyone got signed up to the crew. Most were carried as foot soldiers, waiting for their turn to be made torpedoes: handed a pager, issued a «zubilo» for every two men, and put on the payroll at a hundred dollars a week.
Today two of them had gotten their wish. They sat at the table with Chicha and Karabas, working their eyebrows, playing with the fringe on their jackets, soaking up the gravity of the moment.
I went over to the bar. From there I watched the handout of gangster hardware and the accompanying instructions. I wondered: should I get myself a pager, clip it to my belt, and look businesslike and important? No need. A business card listing «Acting General Director» and three city phone numbers was plenty. Not bad either.
Chicha divvied up the property and duties among the newly minted members of the organized criminal group, then left the restaurant.
Zhorik flopped down next to me. I pounced with the most important question of my new life: why did we need a criminal? Zhora shrugged:
– He’ll come in handy.
I remembered how, a week back, we’d driven out to what might have been cow barns or might have been pig farms. I asked:
– So why did we go out to the collective farm? To shake down pig herders and milkmaids?
– You joking? We were bringing Chicha some guns. His guys go into a deal like Young Pioneers — with bats and brass knuckles. On Bronnaya they’re shooting up kiosks with assault rifles, in Krylatskoye they’re blasting away with grenade launchers. Pretty soon they’ll start dropping bombs from planes. And these idiots are still settling things by the old rules. Good thing Timokha helped out. He’s got a warrant officer buddy dealing guns.
– Why do we need Chicha with guns?
– No hope from the cops. Chicha’s more use to us if he’s armed and his head’s screwed on straight.
Half an hour later, Chicha and company came back into the restaurant. We pushed two tables together and sat down all together — me, Zhorik, Chicha, Karabas, and two characters who introduced themselves as Max and Stas. Close-cropped guys in New York Rangers and New Jersey Devils bomber jackets.
Zhorik started things off:
– So, what’s up? How’d the trip go?
– Nothing to show for it. And the «Patrol» wore us out. That tractor’s worse than a Volga. Need different wheels, – Chicha answered. Karabas and the others nodded: he’s talking sense.
– Would a Cherokee do? – Zhorik asked.
– Sure would. Wide-body — now that’s a real ride.
I got bored, got a little down. Set down my fork and knife, shifted my gaze toward the windows. Zhorik noticed my mood had changed, told me to clear out and go home.
I stepped outside, glanced at my watch, sighed.
Four-twenty.
Verochka probably wasn’t coming. I wonder how she was doing. I’d gotten hooked on her progress reports like a TV serial, and craved a new dose. And a roll in the hay, too.
I crossed the threshold of the apartment to the phone ringing its head off.
Probably Verochka calling, who else? I picked up the receiver and got an earful of grievances. First — if I’m going away, I need to give warning. She knows my phone number. Second — you have to understand that with one day off a week, it drives her crazy sitting home like some hen. Third grievance, fourth, fifth…
I wasn’t really listening, just took note that Verochka was heading over to my place right this minute. Better get ready.
I marveled that Verochka gave orders more forcefully than Zhora, and wandered off to the kitchen.
I got out a bottle of Martini and two cone-shaped glasses, carried them to the living room. Stood there, thought it over, put twenty thousand on the nightstand by the entrance, and made the bed.
