Natalia Smirnova - Moscow Noir

“Who are you?” the Uzbek breathed out at Veltsev, turning toward him slowly, as if he were going to kick him.

Veltsev peered at a very still Lana.

“Go get washed, please,” he told her.

She rose silently; splashing him with the scent of her floral cream, she proceeded to the bathroom. The bolt clicked in the door. Veltsev collected the photograph from the sideboard glass and held it out to the Uzbek.

“I’m here because of him too.”

“What?” The Uzbek grabbed the snapshot and stared at it vacantly, as if it were blank. “Because of what?”

“I know where the money is,” Veltsev explained. “You came for the money, right? So did I. Let’s go.”

The Uzbek threw the photograph at his feet and swung his beads. “Where?”

Veltsev backed up and glanced into the front hall: a key with electrical tape wrapped around the handle was jutting out of the keyhole. “To get the money. I’m telling you. It’s close by.”

The area around the front of the house was spectral, tinted by the light from the windows. Big fat snowflakes were falling from the sky. The trees, the cars, the garages—everything with the exception of the Land Cruiser blocking the alley—was covered in a layer of white. The newly fallen snow creaked underfoot. Veltsev lit up, peered around as he was walking, and nodded at the Uzbek waiting in the lobby. Passing down the ravine between the cemetery fences and the business center, they descended to the Yauza. Not wide, ten meters or so, the channel appeared narrower than it actually was because of the ice frozen along its banks. Veltsev touched the thin crust with his boot tip, as if he were searching for something, took a few steps up and downstream. Saying not a word, the Uzbek shone the flashlight for him. “Here,” Veltsev said at last, pointing at random at the black water. “Only we need something to retrieve it with.” The Uzbek had come closer to the water too, and was regarding it warily. He was holding the light in his left hand, and the end of his knife hilt peeked out of his closed right hand. “We need something to retrieve it with,” Veltsev repeated, and walked over to the reeds on the riverbank. Pulling his gun out of the holster, he took a quick look around. Not far away, on the river, outside the circle of light, he heard the quacking of ducks, and down the opposite bank fireworks were chirring and exploding.

In the air, thick with snow, the shot clanged softly, as if getting stuck in it. The bullet hit the Uzbek at the very base of his neck, knocking out of his cap a puff of what was either steam or dust. The Uzbek dropped the flashlight, sat down briefly, and fell face-first into the water. After rifling the dead man’s pockets, Veltsev took his car keys and shoved the body with his feet farther into the water, where the current would quickly bear him away. The earflaps of his fur cap, which was still smoking from the shot, floated in the water. A double ribbon of blood danced on the bottom in the flashlight’s tiny glow.

The snowfall had been heavy enough that Veltsev didn’t find his own tracks on the way back. On the other hand, he did find a handprint on the driver’s door of the SUV, which was parked in the middle of the road. “Asshole.” Veltsev made quick work of searching the hash- and sheepskin-impregnated glove compartment, drove the car to the cemetery gate, and abandoned it there on the shoulder of the road. On the way the car phone rang twice, and both times he could barely restrain himself from answering with some graveyard humor.

When Lana found out what had happened, she clutched her head with both hands, dropped into the armchair feet first, and said, “That’s it. I’m a dead man too. “

“Why’s that?” Veltsev asked.

“He’d been on the phone arranging… a meet-up with his pals near the front door.”

“A meet-up—for when?”

Lana looked at the cuckoo clock. “Eleven-thirty. In an hour, I guess.” Still holding her head she turned toward Veltsev. “Listen, couldn’t you have asked me what was going on? Before you—”

“Do you have the 300,000 he was talking about?” Veltsev interrupted her.

“Where would I get that?” Lana’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve got five hundred rubles till Wednesday.”

“And this Sharfik of yours—do you know where he is?”

“I told you where.”

Veltsev pulled his sleeve back over his watch. “In that case, calm down. They didn’t come for the money today.”

Lana dropped her arms. “What did they come for?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“He was going to have himself a horror flick. Do you have somewhere to go?”

“No.”

“I can put you up in a hotel for a little while.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have my passport.”

“Why not?”

“Baba Agafia has it.”

“So?”

“So she won’t give it back.”

Veltsev wiped his face, which was still wet from snow. “Damn. I can’t stay here long.”

Lana sniffed her swollen nose. “I’m not keeping you.”

Grinning, he gave her a close, appraising look. “That’s not likely to win you a star for heroism.”

Hugging her knees, Lana looked blindly ahead and fiddled with her toes. “Fine with me. We’ve got a whole cemetery full of heroes right here.”

Veltsev took the magazine out of the gun, brought it up to his eyes like a thermometer, and jammed the weapon back in the holster. “I’m asking you for the last time. Will you come with me?”

She didn’t answer, in fact she seemed to have stopped hearing him altogether. Veltsev took his wet cap off the shelf in the front hall, replaced it with three thousand-ruble bills, took one more look at Lana, and pushed the door open with his fist.

It was snowing a little less, but the wind had picked up. In the courtyard the wind beat only at the treetops, but as soon as Veltsev came out in the open it took his breath away. He was walking back to the subway, heading toward Menzhinsky Street, following the same route he’d taken an hour and ten minutes before—down the shoulder of the road between river and cemetery. “Pigheaded fool,” he said aloud through clenched teeth, squinting at the cutting snow. He raged less at Lana than at himself for imagining god knows what about her. Waiting for the Uzbek’s buddies to show up was sure suicide, and Veltsev had no idea where to get ahold of more rounds now. He’d cut off access to his home arsenal yesterday, and there was too much risk involved in going to his old suppliers. There was still one other Mityai gunman left, of course, Kirila the Kalmyk. Veltsev had beaten off a band of skinheads for him the year before last and ever since had been practically a second father to him. After what happened yesterday, however, when Kirila was left completely out of the loop, even his filial feelings might have changed; furthermore, contacting him now presented a purely technical problem. Veltsev had smashed the SIM card from his own telephone and thrown it out the day before as he left the club, and a call from Lana’s apartment could easily be traced. After taking a few shaky steps, Veltsev stood up and brushed the snow from his eyelashes. The thought of the phone in the Uzbek’s Land Cruiser came to him the second before he noticed the SUV there in front of him, right where he’d abandoned it.

Kirila the Kalmyk answered the moment the call went through.

“Yeah.”

“Got the number?” Veltsev said instead of a greeting.

“Yeah,” Kirila replied after a slight hesitation.

“Call back from a pay phone. Only not from your building or wherever you are.” Veltsev hung up, started the engine, adjusted the rearview mirror with a finger, and examined himself carefully. Weirdo psycho .