Ice Trilogy (45 page)

Nikolaeva got dressed. She put the money away in her wallet. She drank a glass of apple juice. She went into the foyer, put on her overcoat, and left the apartment, carefully closing the door behind her.

02:02
,
Komar and Vika’s Rented Apartment, 1 Olenii Bank

“Work your fist a little.” Komar tied a tourniquet around Lapin’s forearm.

“There’s nothing to work — you can see everything,” laughed Vika. “Wish I had veins like that!”

“Komar, you fucker, you could do me first!” said Ilona, watching angrily.

“Guests first, jeezus fucking Christ. Specially ’cause he’s bankrolling....” Komar inserted the needle into the vein. “Shit, I ain’t seen such spotless ropes in a blue moon.”

“So Ilona, did you really see Leningrad?” asked Vika.

“Uh-huh...” Ilona looked at Lapin’s arm.

“Was it hot?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did they play? Old stuff?”

“Old stuff! Old! Old!” said Ilona, shaking her wrists crossly.

Komar
pulled the plunger toward himself: 27 years old, shaved head, big ears, skinny, stooped, long arms, sharp facial features, wearing a torn blue T-shirt and wide black pants.

Blood appeared in the hypodermic. Komar tugged on the end of the tourniquet. He smoothly injected the contents of the hypodermic into Lapin’s vein.

“There we go.”

Vika
held out a piece of cotton: 18 years old, small, dark, plump, long-haired, purple polyester pants, a light blue top.

Lapin pressed the cotton to his vein. He bent his elbow. Flopped back on a filthy pillow.

“Oh, shit...”

“Well?” said Komar, smiling.

“Yeah...” said Lapin and smiled, parting his lips with difficulty. He looked at the rusty water stains on the ceiling.

“You fucker, are you gonna hit me or not, for heaven’s sake, Komar?” Ilona shouted.

“No problem, Madam.” Komar unwrapped a new hypodermic.

Vika poured the white powder from the packet into a tablespoon, added water, and boiled the spoon over a candle. Komar sucked the semitransparent liquid in the spoon into the hypodermic.

Ilona tied the tourniquet around her upper arm herself. She sat down opposite Komar. Stretched out her arm. In the bend a few tracks could be seen.

“Ilon, I didn’t get it, did they just play old stuff?” asked Vika, lighting up a cigarette.

“No, not only,” Ilona answered irritably, pumping her fist.

“‘When summertime comes, we’ll go to the dacha and leave the town / A shovel in hand, we’ll mess around, mess around...’ They did that one?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ilona muttered crossly.

“I really like the one they do: ‘Ta-ta-ta...some people shoot up / me, I do booze / but I could speed up, after a snooze...’”

Komar took his time and found a place for the needle.

“Hmm, it’s good you don’t overdo things, sweetheart.”

“You think I’m an idiot or something?” Ilona laughed nervously.

“Women! Go figure!” The needle entered her vein.

Lapin smiled. Stretched. Rolled his shoulders around. “Yeah...now...this is...totally different...”

“What’s different?” asked Vika. “Speedball? Of course it is. It’s heavier than plain old smack.”

“Heavier. But I don’t like all this bullshitting: speedball, speedball, and they haven’t really tried a fuckin’ thing...There are so...so many...ummm...mediocre people around here...hacks...no talent...”

“Why?” asked Vika with a happy smile.

“Because every asshole wants to be smarter than he really is. Smarter and more authoritative. Everybody’s all buzzed about their authority, that’s all they think about. As if a human being’s main purpose on earth were to achieve a position in society at any price, even at the price of other people’s suffering.”

Vika and Komar exchanged glances.

“Yeah. Well, one thing’s for sure, if we got a lot of anything, it’s suffering...leaking right outta our assholes...” Smiling, Komar injected the dose into Ilona’s vein.

“Oy...” She closed her eyes. Bent her arm at the elbow. Coughed.

Vika stretched her arm out for Komar. It was riddled with needle tracks. “There’s still another little place here.”

“Just don’t breathe on my forehead.”

“Sorry, Kom.”

Ilona stretched.

“Awesome!”

She kissed Lapin. He embraced her awkwardly.

“Only don’t go too fast, Kom.” Vika looked at the needle.

“Are my pupils big?” Ilona leaned over Lapin.

“Yes,” he replied seriously.

“Are they pretty? What color?”

“Something...like...you know...” Sweating, Lapin looked at them carefully, straight on. “Here’s the thing...it’s those balls...you know, those Chinese equilibrium balls...you have to roll them around in one hand, they’re made of different precious stones, like, maybe jasper or something, and when a ball like that...the yin or the yang, I think it’s the yin...so...and one ball lies there, that is, there’s this energy, this bioenergy that flows from it, and there’s also all these electrical accumulations, and all this stuff together...the energy of the stones, too, we hardly know anything about the energy of stones, I mean stones are so fucking ancient...but you know they used to be soft like sponges, and then over time they petrified and became real stones and there’s all this...this unfuckingbelievable information stored up in them, so it’s kind of like a super memory chip, there’s all this stuff written down there, so mucking fuch that...I mean, so fucking much of everything, about everything, different events, people, everything that happened...It’s all in stones, man...And who needs computers, you just have to know how to use the stones, find the right approach...a normal, competent approach...and then the shit’ll hit the fan, I mean, human beings will become the fucking lords of the world.”

“Your upper lip is really incredible,” said Ilona happily, touching his lip with her finger.

12:09
,
Warehouse of the Cargo Trading Company, 2 Novoyasenevsky Prospect

A large semicircular hangar, a multitude of boxes and packages containing food products. A one-meter-square sheet of thick plywood lay on top of four cases of canned vegetables. Around the plywood several people sat and smoked.

Volodya Straw
: 32 years old, medium height, a thickset body, brown hair, a sullen disposition, a motionless face with a small broken nose, a short sheepskin jacket.

Dato
: 52, pudgy, small, bald, with a round face in a permanent grin, an unbuttoned white raincoat, delicately knit white sweater, beige silk shirt with a high collar, white leather trousers, a gold Tissot watch, a gold bracelet, and a gold ring with a ruby.

Khmelev
: 42,
medium height, thin, dark brown hair,
a thin, narrow, calmly worried face, steel-gray jacket, a dark blue three-piece suit, white shirt, and a light-blue-and-red tie.

Khmelev’s cell phone rang.

“Yes,” he said, putting it to his ear.

“They’re here,” a voice informed him.

“How many?”

“Six...seven guys in two cars.”

“Okay, just let Blindeye and a couple of bodyguards through.”

“Got it.”

Dato tossed a cigarette butt on the cement floor. Crushed it with his black patent-leather boot.

“Two of them won’t be able to carry it in.”

“That’s their problem,” muttered Khmelev.

“So, like usual?” said Straw, sniffing as he stood up.

“Like usual, Vova,” said Dato, slapping his fleshy knees.

The door opened.

Gasan Blindeye
entered the hangar: 43 years old, short, puny,
swarthy, balding, hook-nosed, wearing a black leather coat. Two strongmen carrying a heavy metal coffer followed him in with some difficulty.

Dato stood up. He stepped forward to greet Gasan. They embraced, touched cheeks twice.

“Hello, Dato.”

“Hello, my friend.”

The two guys set the coffer on the floor.

“Put it here,” Dato pointed to the plywood with his small, pudgy hand.

The two lifted the coffer. They carried it over and set it down. The plywood cracked, but held.

“Sit down, my friend.” Dato nodded.

Straw moved a case of macaroni toward Blindeye.

“Dato, let everyone leave us alone.” Blindeye unbuttoned his coat.

“Why?”

“We need to talk.”

“These are my people, Gasan. You know them.”

“I know them, Dato. But let them leave.”

Dato glanced at Khmelev. Khmelev nodded.

“All right then, my friend. We’ll do it the way you say. Go on, go out for some air.”

Khmelev, Straw, and the other two went out. Gasan sat down on the box. He rubbed his cheeks in exhaustion. Dato waited silently.

“I’ve changed my mind, Dato,” Gasan said.

“I don’t understand. What did you change your mind about?”

“I’m not selling.”

“Why?”

Gasan clenched his hands. He touched the tip of his sharp, crooked nose with his thumbs.

“Just because...I’m not selling. That’s all.”

Dato chuckled louder than usual.

“I don’t understand you, Gasan. Why aren’t you selling? The price doesn’t suit you? You want more?”

“No. The price is the old one. It always suited me.”

“So then what’s the deal?”

“No deal. Just — I don’t want to.”

Dato looked at him attentively.

“What’s with you, brother? Are you sick or something? You got problems?”

“I’m not sick, brother. And I don’t have problems. But I’m not selling the product.”

Dato didn’t say anything. He took out a gold cigarette case, removed a cigarette, and took his time lighting it. He walked around, then turned to Gasan.

“But why did you bring the product if you don’t want to sell?”

“To show you, brother.”

“I saw it before. More than once.”

“You take another look at it. Look carefully.”

Gasan stood up. He opened the locks on the coffer and pushed back the metal lid. Under it was a white plastic lid. Gasan pulled it. It opened. Under it was a refrigerator — completely filled with sand.

Dato froze for a minute with the cigarette in his lips.

“Now you understand, Dato, why Gasan does not want to sell you the product.”

“Now I understand.”

Gasan went up close to him.

“We have rats, brother. Fat goddamn rats.”

“Does Tractor know?” asked Dato.

“Not yet. Why the hell should he know?”

Dato stuck his hand in the sand, felt around, scooped up a handful. He threw it forcefully on the floor:

“Crooks!”

“But it’s definitely not the ice cutters.”

“Then who? Your guys?”

“I know my own. And they know me. I would cut off my hand, that’s how I trust them.”

“Hand...foot...” Dato spat angrily. “Your own guys could also turn into rats. Fuckers! Crooks! Gasan, look for them yourself. I’m not going to those blonds. I’ll give the money back. And that’s it.”

“Just wait a minute, brother.”

“What’s to wait? One of your people skimmed some off the top, it’s your problem. You go talk to them.”

“Don’t get all overheated, my friend. It’s not my problem. It’s our problem.”

“No fucking way! They pinched it from your place, what’ve I got to do with it? I’m not involved.”

“You’re involved because the rat lives in your house.”

“What? What fucking rat?”

“A fat one. And it sleeps in your house. It eats your bread.”

Dato stared hard at him.

Gasan rummaged in his pockets. He took out a round wooden tobacco box, opened it. It contained cocaine. He shook a little onto the lid. He took out an ivory straw and a plastic card.

“Let’s have a snort, brother. I haven’t slept for three days.”

“And what about...the rat? In my place? You ready to answer for what you’re saying?”

“I’ll answer.”

“So who is it?”

“Don’t rush.”

“What the fuck do you mean, don’t rush? Who is it?”

Gasan quickly cut the powder with the card. He split it into two thick lines. Handed Dato the straw.

“Come on, brother.”

Dato took the tube. He leaned over and quickly snorted his line. He returned the tube to Gasan, who placed it in his hooked nose. Slowly he drew half of the line into one nostril, then he drew the rest into the other.

“But how did you find out?” Dato sniffed. “You never talked to my people. How did you find out? What is it, I have a stool pigeon in the house?”

“Your boys are all right, Dato.”

“Well then, who, goddamnit?!”

“Just wait a minute.” Gasan made two more lines. “Let’s finish it off. And I will tell you how to handle this.”

“Handle...handle...There you go!” Dato kicked the box. Buckwheat spilled out of the hole.

Gasan snorted his line. Dato brushed him away.

“I don’t want any more.”

Gasan snorted the second line. He put away the tobacco box and the straw. He wiped his nose with a handkerchief.

“All right, let’s do it this way. We’ll close this. And you’ll take it to your place.”

“What the fuckin’ hell I want sand for?”

“Let your people think that everything’s okay”

“And the dough?”

“You give me the briefcase. But you’ll take the dough out.”

“And?”

“You take the trunk to your place. And then we start hunting rats.”

“So you know who it is — or not?”

Gasan came closer, whispering in his ear.

“And does he have the ice?”

“No.”

“But where’s the ice? The blonds got it already?”

“No. No, Dato. The ice is at your house.”

Dato looked straight at him.

“What? Where?”

“In the freezer.”

“At my place?”

“At your place, at your place, Dato.”

“And who did this?”

“Your Natasha.”

21:00
,
Dato’s Apartment, 7 Malaya Bronnaya

A spacious kitchen. White furniture. Expensive utensils. A gold-plated saucepan full of water on the lit burner.

Orange
lay on the marble floor, tied up: 29 years old, red hair, with the massive body of a former athlete.

Natasha
sat in the corner: 26 years old, pretty, long-legged, in a torn red dress. Her hand was handcuffed to the radiator.