Natalia Smirnova - Moscow Noir

Making a living in Moscow proved much more difficult. He tried opening a souvenir shop on Taganka. They wouldn’t let him. He set up a snack shop at Kitai-Gorod. It was burned down two weeks later. He signed a contract to deliver a small consignment of Polish perfume. He got cheated, cost him fifty grand. Well, after that he gave up on having his own business and got a job as a security guard at the Reutov casino. His salary, plus the interest he received on the Petersburg money he’d put in the bank, was enough to live on quite comfortably.

Fate, however, decided to play a trick on the Afghan war hero. The bank went bust. With great difficulty, Nikita managed to get a tenth of his savings back. But he lost even that at the very same casino where he worked. He went in one weekend just to try his luck. Just about hit the jackpot too. His wife’s devotion, like snow in April, began to melt steadily.

She soon turned into a terrible fury. Even so, her three other good qualities remained. She was sexy (though she stopped sharing that particular quality with her husband). Beautiful. And smart. In fact, she was smart enough to kick Nikita out of the apartment three days ago.

“What are you, some kind of wuss?” said Maxim. “Show her who’s boss! You’ve got fists, don’t you? Tell her to get the hell out.”

“She reregistered the apartment in her own name. I’m like the heir or something.”

“Then kill her! Have you forgotten how it’s done? Make it look like an accident.”

“I can’t. I just got baptized. I made a vow, for the rest of my life. Besides, look.” Nikita stuck his arms out in front of him, palms facing downward. His fingers shook visibly, like those of an alcoholic.

“Ouch,” said Maxim, shaking his head. “I’d head for a monastery, bro. And how about your vow never to touch the drink again?”

They were both silent for a moment, puffing on their cigarettes.

“How about this,” Maxim said, interrupting the silence. “I’ll kick her out myself. Then you’ll be off the hook. Where’s your place?”

Nikita gave him an address. It was nearby, 12 Pure Ponds Boulevard.

Maxim waited around until someone opened the door at the main entrance and then held it open for the young mother pushing a stroller. He went up to the third floor and turned off the switch in the fuse box he found in the hallway. Behind the door, where Nikita’s wife Zhanna lived, the television set fell silent.

Maxim went up one more flight of stairs. He waited, giving her time to call the electric company, who would tell her that everything was working down at the station and that she should check her fuse box.

Of course, Zhanna peered through the peephole, but not seeing even the smallest sign of danger she opened the door. Before she had time to realize what was happening, she was back inside the apartment, a hand pressed over her mouth and her arms clamped to her sides.

Maxim turned the key in the lock twice and carried Zhanna deeper into the apartment.

She tried to resist.

“Don’t make any noise,” he said in a whisper. “If you keep quiet, I’ll let you live. Got it? Whisper.” Slowly, he uncovered her mouth and relaxed his grip. Zhanna was silent as she studied the intruder.

“Money?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“Oh, I get it. My jackass sent you over to say hi. My ex-jackass, that is.”

“He said you were smart, and he wasn’t lying.”

It was then that Maxim noticed that she was also beautiful. Beautiful, as in sexy. The thought occurred to him that there was no real difference between one rape or two. Nikita would understand.

So he changed the character of his grasp: from clenched, to imploring.

He noticed with surprise that she did not try to resist. On the contrary, she seemed to press her body toward him (and she smelled so deliciously female!). She gasped with excitement.

Maxim had an instant hard-on.

But he didn’t lose his head. He took off his coat with the webcam that was always hooked up to the game server, and hung it up in the hall so that the camera was facing the wall. There was no reason for them to watch this.

Zhanna moaned. She squeaked. It was unbelievable. You only come across this kind of girl once every six months, Maxim thought to himself.

He drilled her in her cornhole like a wild animal. Like a baboon. Like an orangutan. And she enjoyed it.

That crazy bitch couldn’t get enough. “More!” she howled, cursing like a Shanghai whore giving herself to a platoon of sailors.

They peeled themselves apart. He listened without interrupting as she praised him. He listened as she cursed her impotent husband. As she begged him to stay. Forever. How happy they would be together. Fucking amazing. Those were the exact words she used: Fucking amazing . But she didn’t just say them. She sang the words, which lost their foulness and gained a certain eloquence. Maxim listened quietly, nodding his head. Dream on, baby, he thought. Dream on.

And then he drilled her some more, with the same ferocity.

He came.

Then he noticed she had an Adam’s apple.

Fuck!

A transvestite!

It was a dirty and dangerous game that Nikita had gotten him into.

He stayed cool, not letting on that he had noticed.

“Let me get us some drinks,” said the transvestite. “Okay?”

“Sure.”

The transvestite brought in two glasses of wine from the next room. And Maxim realized that he wouldn’t drink it even at gunpoint.

He took the glass.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to watch you drink. You’re so beautiful, I’m sure you drink beautifully too. My cock is ready for action just watching you.”

The transvestite laughed, and took two sips. His Adam’s apple went up and down two times and then stilled. It wasn’t that big. But it was obviously a man’s.

Maxim set his glass down.

“Why don’t we start off with the usual question,” he said, his fingers locking around the transvestite’s throat. Not too tight, but probing. “Who are you working for? Tell me quietly.”

In all likelihood, at that very moment Nikita was glued to his own transmitter, which connected to an opponent’s webcam and mic, and it was extremely important that he not hear a thing. Each player had a transmitter that allowed him to hook up to his opponent’s channels and receive picture and sound from their webcams, broadcast nonstop. The pictures helped players track each other down if they recognized their opponent’s location.

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. Now listen carefully: this is your one chance to stay alive. Tell me the truth. Everything, and in great detail. Who hired you and why? And what do they want from me?”

The transvestite shrank back. And spilled the beans. About how they sometimes sent people to him who he didn’t know. And he “served” them, the same way he had served Maxim. Then he would put clonidine into their wine. And when his client fell asleep, he would call a certain Artyom, who would finish them off while they were still knocked out. Then, at night, the body would be taken away by two bald guys in a jeep. The transvestite knew nothing more. The answer why seemed pretty clear, but who was behind this? That was the question.

Another question was how had Nikita turned into such a cunt? The traitor! But Maxim tried not to think about that.

“You don’t kill?”

“No,” answered the transvestite, blanching.

“So you guys have a division of labor and everything. You got one son of a bitch working as a decoy, another giving sexual favors, and the third does the killing. Four and five get rid of the body. You guys are a goddamn hockey team!”

“Please don’t kill me,” whispered the transvestite.