James Baldwin - Burn Artist

“Fuck this.” Rodion ground his teeth, and waved at everyone who still remained. “Get out of here, you slags! Anyone who wants to keep going, we’re moving it to the Fox!”

“Come on, Lexi. Let’s get the hell out.” Vassily shoved my jacket into my hands, and pulled me away as Grisha continued to curse and spit in my direction.

We jogged over to my car and clambered inside, slamming the doors and locking them. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, I was shaking, not from fear, but from a deep, savage joy. Kovacs’ curse had deflected onto my father. He was going to spend the rest of his short, miserable life in terror, unable to control what was to come, and then he was going to burn to death. I wouldn’t even have to touch him. He could and would try to kill me before the inevitable… but all I had to do was hold him off for twenty-four hours, max, and then he was gone forever. It felt unreal.

“I don’t think I want to go home just yet,” I said, pulling out onto the street and away. “Did Rodion say he was continuing the party at the Sly Fox?”

“Eh?” Vassily looked over at me. “What? Are you serious?”

“Am I ever not serious?”

He shook his head. “Something’s gotten into you, man. Flirting with chicks, standing up to your old man, and now you want to go to a bar? Where’s Alexi, and what the fuck did you do to him?”

“Someone is about to incinerate my father tonight or tomorrow. I think it’s a cause for celebration,” I said, too cheerfully.

“Oh. Right. Jesus, you’re creepy when you smile.” Vassily sighed. “Okay, so. Let’s celebrate this morbid shit, but I want you to have a drink with me. A real, proper drink.”

“No.” It was a reflex as much as a real denial. “No, you know I won’t drink.”

“Well, you need to. You’re wound tighter than a watch spring and you have been for sixteen fucking years. You grind your teeth in your sleep, for fuck’s sake.”

I recoiled a little. “I do?”

“You do. I’m surprised you still HAVE teeth.”

Self-conscious, I ran my tongue over them, checking for damage. “That still doesn’t mean—”

“Seriously. I just want to see you relaxed for once,” Vassily said. “Let go of the badass monk act and live a little. You said it yourself: Grisha’s toast. There’s nothing you could do for him, even if you wanted to, and I dunno about you, but all this cursing shit is making me remember my mortality.”

“I know what alcohol does to people. You know I don’t—”

“Alexi.” Vassily’s voice hardened. “You’re not your dad. You’re not going to turn into a psycho rage-beast after a couple glasses of vodka and beat up someone’s puppy, okay?”

I frowned, tongue-tied.

“That, and the Fox is boring as shit without anything to drink.” He waved a hand, still scuffed from brawling, and lit up a cigarette out the window. “Not unless you’re looking for some old Chinese broad to sell you bootleg smokes and porno magazines. Which you can get there, by the way, if you go down that hallway in the back.”

He was not exaggerating. The Sly Fox was a seedy dive in the old Ukrainian part of East Village, part of our wide-ranging protection racket and a favorite of our muzhiki. It was a pigsty on its better days, and tonight, it was two steps removed from a midden. I could smell urine out on the street. People weaved around and laughed outside. About twenty other people from Rodion’s party were there, laughing with the bouncer – not one of the crew, but friendly enough with the Organizatsiya to pass as one. I jammed my earplug in as we went down the stairs, descending into red-lit darkness.

The Fox was also always busy. Rodion was already inside, as were Lev and Semyon. They both looked quite out of place in their fine linen suits. I went and found a booth while Vassily went to go and get drinks, trusting him to bring something I might find tolerable. A few passersby stopped to greet me with a mixture of shock and surprise. No one had expected me to follow the party.

Vassily returned, and banged a short tumbler down on the table as he took his seat beside me. He had a beer and a tumbler of the same stuff, which was dark and smelled strongly of blueberries.

“What’s this?” I regarded it warily.

“ Rakija . Blueberry moonshine. Totally up your alley.”

My mouth drew across. I didn’t touch the drink.

“Look, if you start trying to beat on me, I’m fully capable of pounding your ass into the pavement, alright?” Vassily slid his arm over my shoulders, and I was suddenly hyperaware of how close he was. My mouth went dry, heart pounding in a way I usually only experienced in the heat of a kill.

Slowly, I picked up the glass and sniffed. It smelled yellow and purple to me. I took a single swallow, and to my surprise, the painful noise of the bar momentarily receded. The berry flavor was dry and sharp, a little sweet, and strong enough to numb the tongue. It was the combination of taste and texture that did it, working just like peppermint oil.

Vassily laughed at my expression. He smacked me between the shoulders, and I nearly snorted the stuff out my nose. “See? Is that so bad?”

I looked up to see Lev watching us from the central table. He was leaning on his linked forearms while Semyon talked to Ovar and Nicolai about something, and when he noticed me observing him he averted his gaze. But he had seen me drink.

“It’s alright,” I replied. I had another mouthful, and a strange fluttering sensation passed through my chest. I thought it was nervous butterflies at first, until I realized that the feeling was actually the muscles of my chest relaxing. Feeling oddly, slightly competitive, I drained the rest of the glass and slammed it down.

“It doesn’t kill you to let the reins loose now and then, Lexi.” Vassily pushed the other glass to me and raised his beer. “I’ll make a hedonist out of you yet. Bud’mo! ” [25] Common Ukrainian toast. ‘To health!’

“ Bud’mo ?” I echoed him, and fought down a twinge of baseless anxiety as I followed his lead. I already felt a bit dizzy, but Vassily was unfazed. Happily tipsy and far more at ease than he’d been at the Tea Room, Vassily looked more handsome than ever. I was fairly sure that I was flushed red, like a boiled crab.

While he was at the bar, Lev left his place and took the seat in front of me, a small smile playing over his mouth. In the red light, his green eyes looked black.

“I see you’re having fun, Alexi,” he said. “I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you let loose.”

The Rakija had gone down smoothly. I was a little dizzy, but could still speak properly. “Apparently it happens on occasion.”

“Indeed. Look… I wanted to talk with you about something.” His expression turned a little serious, and he leaned across the table so that I could hear him. Half-deaf, I did the same. “Something about Grigori.”

Just his name was enough to sour my belly, until I remembered that he was on the fast track to the crematorium. “Go on.”

“Rodion is angry with him,” he said, his voice thick with conspiracy. “All of the activity with Maslak has… put him in a difficult position. Your father has been racking up debt after debt, borrowing money from his friends, and hasn’t been paying them back.”

My eyes narrowed. “For how long?”

“Three or four years now,” Lev replied. “It’s… a bad state of affairs. Our Avtoritet asked him to repay him some of the money to cover the costs of this operation, but he has been making excuses.”

Owing money to your Avtoritet was generally not good for one’s health. Refusing to pay him back was almost a guarantee. “What is he borrowing for?”