June 26, 1993
Saturday
4:20 PM
Our bench-sitting ended with Zhorik’s command: «Time to go!» We headed into Zamoskvorechye.
We reached Tretyakovskaya station on the Kaluzhskaya line, went down into the vestibule, and looked around.
A police sergeant strolled past. The lawman ran an appraising eye over Zhorik: check the migrant worker’s papers right away, or hold off a while. Then he scanned my get-up. I was dressed to the nines: beige slacks, a silk shirt, and moccasins. All new, shiny, rustling and creaking, bought the day before yesterday. The cop weighed what he was seeing and pondered the best way to shake down out-of-towners — catch them off guard, or let them stew first. Took us for provincials burning through their capital in Moscow.
I felt a pang of sadness.
I’d never drawn attention before and never worried about it. And now look! Dressed up nice and suddenly interesting. The sergeant kept both me and Zhorik in his sights, calculating just what clever fine might test our solvency.
I deeply regretted letting Zhorik talk me into pitching my jeans and T-shirt in the trash. In my old clothes, the sergeant would’ve clocked me right away as a Moscow dorm-dwelling student, good for nothing more than a metro pass.
What now?
Zhorik solved it the simple way. Tugged my sleeve, gave a wink: we’re heading outside!
A minute later I was studying kiosk windows, marveling at how steep the prices were for center-of-town dwellers — back on Kashirka a Snickers and a beer went for half as much… and suddenly… behind a kiosk further off, I spotted Timofei holding a black plastic bag. He was making eccentric signals — nodding his head, writhing his whole body like it had no center of gravity, bugging out his eyes. I tugged Zhorik’s sleeve: «Look. Over there.»
Zhorik glanced over at Timofei and muttered under his breath, well would you look at that, pretty boy… Stuffed his hands in his pockets and set off down Klimentovsky Lane toward Pyatnitskaya Street with the swagger of a Moscow rascal out for a stroll. I hurried after him, noting that Timofei had come out of hiding and fallen in on our course.
As soon as we reached the crossroads, Zhorik stopped and ordered:
— Right. We’re heading to the buyers.
I nodded along and noticed Zhora was giving orders to something behind my back. I turned, not even having time to get scared… Timofei stood there, having caught up with us. Zhorik kept issuing commands right past me:
— Merchandise on you?
Timofei nodded. Zhorik went on:
— Listen up. We’re heading into a joint now. The guys’ll show, settle up on the spot. Solid guys, I guarantee it.
Timofei nodded, a beat too late. Zhorik tossed his mane and strode off toward Kalyazinsky Lane. I hurried after him. Timofei, I figured, didn’t linger. Or did he? I wanted to check, but couldn’t scrape together the strength or the nerve to turn around.
What if the police were tailing us? Better to keep my eyes forward, on Zhora’s broad back, and hope for the best.
