Moscow Noir

Of course, the cops tried to shoo me away. There were two of them. I gave them each a hundred bucks (I didn’t have any smaller bills on me). They stared at me, and then at the bills, with their blank fish eyes, and finally they laid off. Understandable, I guess. It’s not every day you see a piss-covered bum around Kursk station with a wad of greenbacks in his pocket. A minute later one of them came back. He sniffed back his snot, his nose violet from the frost, and stared hungrily at the bridge of my nose.

“Got any ID?”

I gave him another hundred. Breathing hard, he examined it under the yellow light of the streetlamp, then stuffed it inside his jacket. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. His gaze slid like sewage water down my unshaven face, broken nose, lip soaked in blood, and my dirty rags covered in brownish-yellow stains, before slithering back up to my face, where it paused for a moment on my misshapen gray hat with earflaps. Something caught his attention there, either the cut of the hat or the locks of hair that were left uncovered, too shiny and clean for the likes of me. I pulled my hat down over my forehead to reassure him. He had already forgotten about it, and his eyes shifted over me mechanically, until he focused on the bridge of my nose again.

“Where’d you steal the money?”

Now that was going too far.

“I earned it,” I told him. But my voice came out sounding choked and hoarse, like a crow cawing.

“I’m taking you down,” the cop said colorlessly, and suddenly—I swear—his teeth started chattering, maybe from the cold or, most likely, from hunger, the greedy bastard.

I gave him another hundred bucks, promising myself that this was the last time. I really didn’t want any problems with law-enforcement officers, but arrogance has its limits, even from a cop. And four hundred is definitely the limit. If he tried to get any more out of me, I’d kill him.

Again, he studied my contribution, then hid it away. He sniffed. Coughed uncertainly.

“Any more questions, officer?” I croaked, pulling the mitten off my frozen hand so that it would be easier to shoot if he said yes, and cursing myself for the servile “officer,” which had rolled off my lips like a token rolling out of the broken turnstile at the john in Kursk station.

By the way, don’t ever take a piss at Kursk. Unless, of course, you like pissing into a reeking hole in the cold in front of other people for fifteen rubles.

A passenger train pulled into the station with a shriek and a groan. The cop squinted lazily at the train and then stole a glance at my bare fingers—too clean, too smooth, and my nails were too manicured. He was thinking hard about something, which was obviously not easy for him. He wrinkled his low forehead, and his eyebrows twitched like cockroaches. Finally the twitching stopped.

“Who are you?” he asked, and looked me in the eye for the first time, intently and with some degree of intelligence. He was obviously on the brink of some kind of realization.

I felt the icy handle of the gun in my pocket. To be honest, I don’t like guns. I’m a bad shot, anyway. On the other hand, even a fool can shoot. Right. First you just cock it back …

Foxy Lee hadn’t wanted to give me the gun. That put me on my guard. She kept pushing me gently toward the door, shaking her red mane of hair and mumbling, “You won’t be needing that. Come on! You don’t need it.” Then she caught my stare and her face crumpled up like she was hurt. “You don’t believe me, do you? Just like before!”

I thought she was going to start bawling. But she didn’t. She handed me the gun, barrel first, and frowned. That’s not how you do it. Handgrip first, I said to myself automatically, and took the gun from her, feeling ashamed again.

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” said Foxy. “If anything happens, one of my guys will be at the station. He’ll help you.”

Suddenly I felt uncomfortable.

“One of your guys? What does that mean?”

“Ours,” Foxy corrected herself playfully. “Our guy. A friend.” She put her arms around my neck. Her hands were cool and her fingertips were slightly moist.

“I’ll get along fine without your friends.” I wanted to pull away, but she wouldn’t let me.

“Don’t be jealous,” Foxy whispered into my ear. “It was a long time ago.”

That made me even more mad. A long time ago, what the hell is that supposed to mean? When Stary picked you up at the train station you were seventeen, a filthy, skinny little redhead. You’re twenty-one now. Only twenty-one, girl! So what the hell does that mean—a long time ago?

She stroked my cheek. Her fingers smelled sweetly of flower-scented hand cream and blood.

“I’ll be with you,” said Foxy. “If that’s what you want.”