Moscow Noir

“Well now, let’s see if it’s true.” A man of about fifty totters out to the middle of the field. I know him. He’s the deputy chief detective from the next department over. A colonel. He was in line for a promotion to Moscow homicide, but something didn’t work out. They say it was the vodka again. The colonel takes an apple from the pocket of his pretentious leather jacket, blows tobacco flakes off it, and places it on his own head. The field bursts into laughter again.

“Watch,” the young agent Khmarin elbows me in the side. “Something’s about to happen.”

To be honest, I’m scared, but Khmarin is perfectly calm and smiling his big gap-toothed smile.

“Two years ago Banderas stood three Tajiks here, rapists. They didn’t want to write confessions. He put an apple on top of each head, and took out two barrels. They say it stank of shit, but nothing bad happened.”

“Did they write them?”

“Sure did. You’d write anything if a bullet grazed your head.” Khmarin sniffs. “True, I didn’t actually see it. But that’s what people say.”

I don’t doubt that’s exactly how it all went down, but my alarm doesn’t abate. I’m looking at Voronov. He’s very, very drunk. Catching my look, he smiles and the tips of his mustache go up. He comes closer, leans toward my face, bathing me in a haze of vodka, and whispers, “If you get together with an old friend and buy a case of pepper vodka, you can have a pretty decent time of it. You just have to leave your guns at home. Someone told me that too, but I forgot. Just so you remember, student.”

I’m gripped by panic, but changing anything—that’s out of my hands. The colonel stands in the middle of the field and keeps smiling idiotically. The apple is shaking on his head, looking to fall. Voronov marks off twenty-five paces and stands facing him. The cops fall silent. You can touch the silence now, you can cut it with a knife and spread it on bread. Snow crunches under someone’s feet; the officers are freezing in the winter woods, and warm boots are not their style. Voronov gets his nonregulation TT out of his left holster, examines it carefully, and closes his eyes for a second. Right now I can feel him as if I’ve entered into his mind. He aims with eyes closed, without raising the barrel. The next instant something terrible happens. Chilled from standing there in one place, the colonel sneezes. We still haven’t heard the sound and don’t realize what’s happening. All we see is his face suddenly crumple. His mouth opens wide, the apple falls off his shaven head, and the night silence is shredded by gunshot. He sneezes and drops like a sack into the snow. His legs bend, his arms fling awkwardly to the side, and the 7.62 caliber bullet pierces his head like it’s a ripe melon—straight through. Now his left leg twitches spasmodically—the tiniest bit. Once, twice, three times. All his muscles tense and his chest rises and falls. The thousand and first corpse on the field.

No one seems surprised. The agents collect the remains of their feasting silently and efficiently and toss the bottles and snacks into their trunks. One after another the engines start up and the dry snow creaks under their wheels. Another three minutes or so probably pass, or maybe it’s an eternity. And here we are. The two of us on the field. Voronov nervously squeezes the TT in his hand, and I’m frozen in an awkward pose on the mossy concrete.

The colonel’s corpse.

Our eyes meet. Banderas walks over to me and looks me up and down. He throws the gun at my feet.

“Keep it. It’s a present.” He turns on his heel and walks toward his car. “Boy, cops don’t go to prison. They die fast there. Or stop being cops. Or stop being at all.”

“And so?”

“You still don’t understand.”

“Aha.”

“Aha. Idiot. You’re a cop. That’s all. God help you. And if he does—you’ll understand real fast. Bye for now.”

He starts his engine and leaves. I’m alone. I sit like that for another hour, until my drunk is completely passed. My brain is now amazingly clear, and I know what I have to do.

I put on my gloves and pick the TT up by the barrel. I painstakingly wipe the whole gun with my handkerchief and walk over to the corpse. I try desperately to remember whether our colonel was a lefty or not. No, I don’t think so. His fingers have already started to stiffen, but all is not lost. I put the gun in his right hand and carefully survey the field. Yes, all’s well. The apple is lying a meter from the corpse—yellow with a red blush. I pick it up and take a big bite. I like slightly frozen apples. What can I say?

There’s nothing more to do here. Crunching on the apple, I quickly take the path toward Rostokinsky Road. I still have some money. I have to grab a passing car and make my way home. And be at work at 8 a.m. tomorrow.