Moscow Noir

Stary is that kind—when he gets angry, his dull gray eyes take on a noble, mercuric hue, and the earthy shade of his face drains to an aristocratic paleness. His unremarkable nose becomes beaklike, and his bushy brows rise and fall like deathly black wings. In other words, he was handsome when he was angry (and because he was often in such a state, you could say he was handsome most of the time).

“Bastards!” Stary yelled into the phone. “Drive over to Palych’s construction site and have him pour some for you!”

That was when Foxy came in. Stary didn’t see her; he was standing with his back to her. But I saw everything perfectly. She was barefoot, messy looking, her red hair was tangled, and her right cheek looked swollen. She peered at him with hatred, with absolute hatred—such absolute hatred that I even felt the malicious pleasure of a jealous male, although god knows I had more important things to focus on just then.

“I’m telling you, he’s got cement!”

Still keeping her eyes on his back, she took a figurine off the shelf (not even a figurine—it was more like a bronze blob, a piece, as they say, of modern art) and approached him, stepping softly with her bare feet. She waited for him to say, “Okay, see ya,” and hang up before she hauled off and slammed that piece of modern art into the back of his head.

Slowly, and somehow picturesquely, he fell.

He died almost immediately. His last words were: “I’m cold.”

He really did love the movies, poor guy. A rug spattered in blood, his woman, her hands stained red, “I’m cold”—so Hollywood. Until Foxy Lee untied me and I had checked his pulse, I almost thought he was faking it.

But he died for real.

Naked, shivering, and pathetic, standing over Stary’s dead body, I offended Foxy again. I asked her what she wanted—as in, how much I owed her for the favor. I gave the dead body a little kick.

That’s when she started to cry. She cried long and hard, like a baby, like an inconsolable child. She was probably crying like that the first day Stary brought her here. She was sobbing and gasping and she couldn’t stop. She kept saying, “I don’t nee … nee … nee …” I hugged her and stroked her hair. I felt ashamed, really ashamed, even before she managed to say, “I don’t need anything. I did it for you. He wanted to kill you!”

I was ashamed. I hid my face in her hair and asked her to forgive me.

Then she whispered: “If you want me, you can have me.”

I was already naked, and she undressed quickly. Stary was staring at us out of one bloodied eye. He kept watching silently as I got the answers to my questions.

I found out that Foxy moans.

And that her eyes stay open, but her pupils dilate and become huge and crazed, like two black full moons.

And I found out that she smells like an animal and a child at the same time, and she tastes salty, like the sea. That her nipples are hard and brown, and that she has freckles, not only on her face but on her shoulders. And that there is a thin line of red hair that stretches from her navel to her pubis.

Then she gave me some clothing, his clothing, because Stary had thrown mine away, and she gave me a stack of dollar bills (his) and she gave me a gun (his) and the gold bank card. My bank card.

As I was leaving, I asked her, “What about you? Are you gonna be okay?”

And she answered: “What about me? They’ll be looking for you, not me. I’ll stay here and I’ll be miserable. I’ll say he was lying there when I came into the room.” She nodded at Stary.

Apparently, I didn’t look too ecstatic.

“All you have to do is make it through the night,” said Foxy. “If we both run away, then they’ll look for both of us and we won’t have any chance at all. If we do it this way, I’ll have everything fixed up by morning. Then you’ll step off the bus and my guy … our guy, that is, will give you new documents, tickets, and new clothes. You have to believe me, honey, no one in his right mind would go looking for you in that stinking bus. No one in his right mind will look for you on a third-class train. We’ll meet up in Odessa, okay? Is that okay with you?”

I had no objections, because the plan made sense. I had no objections, because I was in love. I had no objections, because Foxy Lee is my guardian angel. Because doubting her would be a sin. She killed him for my sake. And in doing so she harmed herself. That’s a fact. It’s a paradox. I keep thinking about it, and I never stop being amazed: because Stary was the one guarantee she had in life. In killing him, she lost everything—the mansion on the banks of the Yauza River, money, clothes, perfume, bling, expensive cars, shopping trips to the Atrium—everything.

What would she get in exchange for all that?

Stary was married, but not to Foxy. His wife lived in a modest three-story building on Rublevsky Highway. With the help of a maid, a physical trainer, and two nannies, she took care of their son. Stary came to visit them from time to time. Foxy knew about it. Stary had bequeathed everything to his wife and son. Foxy knew about that too.