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  After a few minutes of silence, he smiled, and I watched his light flicker back to life. “So, we’re going straight to Gletchik’s, right?”

  “Of course.” I desperately needed food. My stomach had given up trying to tell me how hungry I was, and I imagined it shrunk down to the size of a bean, the walls of my gut gnawing at itself for sustenance.

  “Thank God. I’m gonna hit that menu so hard.”

  The idea was utterly perplexing. I frowned. “Why would you hit the menu?”

  “For fuck’s sake.” Vassily rolled his eyes. “Alexi... I’m not actually going to hit the menu.”

  “You order from menus.” I shook my head stubbornly.

  “Fine. Okay. I will order from the menu. Everything from the menu.” He sighed. “Fucking hell. I forgot how literal you get when you’re tired.”

  Ordering everything on the menu didn’t seem a whole lot more practical than hitting it, but I kept my mouth shut and focused on my driving. In any case, if buying everything was what he wanted to do, well... I guess we could make space in the refrigerator for it all, if we tried hard enough.

  Gletchik's was as good as usual. We ate as much as we could, but there was no time for rest. Vassily needed ID, a new bank account, new clothing, and all the other minutiae of mundane life after being released from prison. We returned to my apartment with far too much food for the old one-person refrigerator and wet food for Binah. My new cat greeted us enthusiastically at the door, and when Vassily stooped and picked her up, she stuck her head out, purring, and began to wash the bridge of his nose.

  “Who’s this pretty little guy?” Vassily paused for a moment to check under her tail. “Girl.”

  “Binah. She’s...” I almost said “Semyon’s cat,” but Semyon was dead. “New. I thought you’d like her. To replace Sir Purrs-a-Lot.”

  “R.I.P Purrs-a-lot.” Vassily said mournfully. “But she's great. I love Siamese.”

  Once everything was put away, I left Vassily to play with Binah in the den and stumbled gratefully to my bedroom. I was delirious, dizzy by the time I was finally able to turn off the light, undress, and get into bed.

  Sleep came easily, but it was not peaceful.

  As I often did, I dreamed of the old Sokolsky house on Brighton 6th Street. Like an automaton, I walked up the foggy sidewalk and opened the gate. The peeling bungalow door was usually locked, as inaccessible to me as the memories of my teens. Tonight, the front door was open as wide as my hand, large enough for a cat to squeeze in. The cool air coming from underneath the entry smelled rotten and sweet. I knew I was dreaming but couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and pushing the door in. Couldn’t stop myself from walking inside.

  This dream house had only one room. It was cluttered to waist height with the stacks of old paper my mother hoarded and trash bags full of the bottles my father discarded. The carpet was thin and dull, and the only light was from two sickly green lampshades in the corners of the room. The wide arch that would have led to the kitchen was bricked over, painted with a strange symbol. It looked like an eye with a cross where the iris was supposed to be. It was drawn in blood, pressed into plaster the texture of dead flesh. Crumpled face-first against the wall was a tall, white-haired, dark-skinned, sexless figure. Its fingers were bloodied stumps.

  “You believe in G.O.D., don’t you?” The figure did not speak, but its voice echoed around the room, breathless and fluted. It spelled out each letter slowly, shaping them like soap bubbles that burst in my ears.

  I froze. The shadow of a man much larger than I loomed around me, cutting the light from the door behind. I heard a click, like a finger on a trigger.

  “I need your help and your faith.”

  My vision began to crawl with black spots, dancing specks creeping in from the sides of my eyes, but I could not move as I heard the trigger pull home.

  In the split second before impact, the head of white hair snapped around like an owl’s, eyes wide with surprise. I saw Blue. Twin points of blazing white-blue that ate into me, drowned me, and filled me as my head shattered.

  “... Bat'ko?”

  My body hit the bed and bounced, pitching me to the side and then upright as I scrambled for purchase on sweaty sheets. My hand flew to my face: it was numb. Disoriented and heaving for air, I stumbled up, searching for a light. The room was pitch dark and freezing, the air thick, silent except for the rattle and spit of the air conditioner. I found a lamp and pulled the chain, leaning back against the wall beside it. It was the lamp on the bookshelf beside my altar.

  I looked around and then down, and my eyes were drawn to the tarot card I had set out for contemplation earlier in the week. The Devil, the card of material entrapment, confusion, false self-image. It sat next to the tin dish of salt and water which held the caster I’d retrieved from Nacari, and as I stared at it, trying to figure out what was gnawing at me, I realized: The water had boiled off, and the salt was brownish, dull and stained. I could see the top of the caster protruding from the remains, like a half-buried skull.

  When I could move, I pushed away from the wall and got the chalice on the way out. The rest of the apartment was gloomy, the air hanging still. I nosed through the darkness until I reached the kitchen, and then ran gloved hands over the edge of cold metal and the small gap between the fridge and the overhead shelf. I found the door and cracked it open: Light spilled over the brown linoleum tiling. Squinting against the glare, I got a jug of cold water and refilled the chalice to drown the sigil in fresh salt water. I put the whole thing in the icebox, tucking it securely between bags of frozen pelmeni. It wouldn't evaporate again.

  “Mrr. Mrraw.” Binah’s was still getting used to the place, flighty and shadow-shy, but she arched against my bare legs like she’d always known me. Her fur was warm, a little damp. Sleeping on Vassily, probably. In the lapse of sound just as I bent down to pet her, I caught a flash of bright green noise: the telltale beep of the answering machine from farther back in the house. I’d slept so hard I hadn’t heard the phone.

  I grimaced and stalked out at a quick walk. My stomach was twitchy as I strode into the den in the dark and then stopped, sniffing. It was humid in here, and smelled like male scent. Vassily was sleeping on the sofa. I crept past him, snoring away in his duvet, and unlocked my office door with Binah on my heels.

  My office was the size of a large closet, barely big enough for a desk, shelves, and the case that held my father's old sledgehammer. My work library was in here – references of old criminal cases, journals on forensic technology, a record of murders solved and unsolved, and local police bulletins on organized crime. My desk was surrounded by pinboards covered in news clippings and notes. You had to stay on top of what the other side was doing to be good at your job.

  A long glass case next to the desk held the sledgehammer on its bed of purple velvet. It was a plain prison camp tool, unremarkable in every way except for the memories of mingled horror and victory it aroused in me. My father had used it for his executions, and I had used it to execute him. The haft was worn smooth, but the oiled iron head was dark and pitted with old blood. As always, I glanced at it as I shuffled into the chair and pressed the play button, switching on the desk lamp with the other hand. The machine whirred and clicked, winding the tape. While I waited, I rubbed at my itching jaw. My mouth was very dry. Bat'ko. I had heard that word very clearly, but it made no sense to me. 'Bat'ko' meant 'father'.

  Nicolai’s grating, dull voice spoke from the speakers, rough and flat from the electronic distortion. “Lexi, it’s Nic. Lev says he wants to see you at Sirens soon as you get this message. You've got business together.”

  Chapter 4

  Sirens was my own special hell. Between the clashing smells, the pounding music, flashing lights, and hordes of sweating, hooting twenty-something men, it was a purgatory of sensory agony. The colors flooded my mouth as soon as I stepped out onto the warm asphalt. The syrupy amber of bass, the high and wavering papery texture of treble, and the kalei
doscopic flow of muffled vocals from inside and around the club bubbled somewhere between the back of my tongue and my sinuses like a mixture of popping sherbet and razor blades.

  “Whoo-whee.” Vassily was making the best out of a five-year-old Hawaiian shirt, new slacks, and Brylcreem. “It's still baking out here. They got air-con in the club yet?”

  “Uhn.” I didn’t want to have to talk, not until I had no other choice. I fumbled for a packet of Altoids while walking, put one in my mouth, and started chewing. The chill took the edge off.

  The guard at staff entry, Ovar, could have modeled for a harem romance novel. At six and a half feet, Ovar was half a foot taller than Vassily, a full foot taller than me, and broader through the shoulders than both of us put together. The Georgian towered over every stripper, most of the other bouncers, and nearly all of the patrons like a mountain of muscles, black glittering eyes, and mustache.

  “Ho, if it isn’t our star dancers!” he boomed in Russian over the lot as we trudged our way across. “My Zmechik and Charivchik, look at you! Back together at last!”

  “Ho-lee shit. Look who it is!” Vassily advanced, beaming. He clapped hands with Ovar, who pulled Vassily into a brief hug. "How you goin', big guy?"

  I chewed my candy and tried to look pleasant. The white-blueness of peppermint overrode the mashed odors of perfume, bleach, sweat, and sex I could smell from the door. One could only hope I’d brought enough to carry me through the night without a migraine.

  “Good, good. Healthy and fat. But you, out of prison already and looking meaner than you ever did.” Ovar flashed a mouth of wet gold teeth. “Makes you a man, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does.” Something was missing in Vassily’s smile.

  “Ha! Mind you, it’s soft here, in this country. Karaganda, now that was a prison.” Ovar was one of those relentlessly cheerful men whose voice, unfortunately, grated on my nerves. Words tumbled out of his mouth like black gravel, and I couldn’t shake the sensation or image as I shifted my weight uneasily on my feet. “But America? It’ll end up the same way, you watch. Land of the free, hah!” The huge Georgian hawked a gob of spittle onto the concrete. “Free to rot in jail.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but Lev is waiting for us.” I spoke up before Vassily could open his mouth and keep chattering. “We were called in with some urgency.”

  Ovar’s eyes lit up, and the mustache bristled in excitement. “Oh-ho, fresh business. Well, he will wait. Go see Nicolai first. He has to be on the floor in twenty minutes. Lev can wait around in his fancy office, acting like he’s important. We have to make sure we remind him who really owns this city, eh?”

  “Hey, he had big boots to fill. From everything I’ve heard, Lev’s doing a decent job of keeping the place clean,” Vassily said.

  “Ha! He is half a man, at best. You’ll see. Sergei will come back someday and set this place right again. Go and deal with him, kids. I’ll stay here and hold the fortress against the horde of idiots.” Ovar aimed a clumsy, friendly slap towards my shoulder as I swept past, and I adroitly sidestepped his hand and pushed ahead into the corridor. The gauntlet cleared, I drew a deep, steadying breath.

  “See what I mean, Lexi?” Vassily spoke when we were out of earshot, eyebrow arched. “Why’d you shrug him off like that? You hate people.”

  I grimaced and fixed my eyes ahead. “I respect Ovar, but his voice sounds like a truck laying out bitumen on a new road. Also, he’s a little bit... grabby.”

  My friend’s laughter rang out sharply against the concrete walls as we turned the corner. A pair of girls talking and laughing about the other dancers teetered down the hallway towards us. Vassily tipped an invisible hat to one of them as she pushed out her bubblegum-pink lips and winked. I gave them a wide berth. Their voices were yellow and jagged. I could barely relate to the men here, let alone most of the women. Morosely, I sucked on my mint. I could feel the club’s music in my teeth.

  We found the security office and muster room nearly empty, with four of the nine radios already checked out for the night. Only two of the bouncers were in the room: Petro and Maxy. They were playing dominoes with their handsets turned off. Typical. If Ovar was a refugee from a harem romance, Petro was an escapee from an Armani fashion show: tall, strikingly handsome, always well-tanned and well dressed. Maxy was a small guy with a pinched face and a mullet, a mustache considerably less impressive than Ovar’s, and hard black eyes. On the way past, I glanced curiously at their tiles and rapidly calculated the odds. Petro was going to win.

  “Oh my god. Look who the fuck just walked in like he owns the fucking place!” Petro rose up from his seat, his face alight. “Vassily! You look like a million bucks, man!”

  “I feel like something a bear shat out. How’s it going?” Vassily went in for handshakes and shoulder-pounding, while I hung back and glanced at the corkboard, looking for the security roster. Unconsciously, my mind pieced together shapes made by the pieces of paper: they were arranged in a hexagonal pattern, alternating colors. I like patterns like that. Patterns didn’t move, unlike people, and they didn't nauseate me in the way that human faces did.

  Vassily’s dark blue voice and the pink-and-gray nattering of the other men ground on behind me as I stepped in to look over the roster. Six men were on shift, including Nic, but only four radios were missing. Idly, I left the table and went to the register, flicking back through the logbook to check the sign-ins. Mikhail, Petro, Nic, Maxy, Ovar, and Yuri were on shift, but Yuri’s sign-in was missing.

  “Hey, shorty. Was it your body they found today?”

  “Body? What body?” I replied absently and glanced over at the trio. They called me a few different names here. Men like Ovar stuck with the names I’d earned as titles of respect—Charivchik, Magician, or Molotchik, 'Little Hammer.' Not all of my nicknames are so flattering.

  “I heard that one of Manelli’s boys turned up weird and dead on our turf this morning.” Petro crushed his cigarette into the tray.

  “We was betting it was Vanya that called the hit. He’s been all kinds of happy the last couple of days since that last shipment of snow came in,” Maxy added.

  I stiffened in place. Rather than lift my chin to look up at Petro’s face, I glared at him from under my brows. It was never good to look up at taller men, because that allowed them to look down on you. “No, it wasn’t, and that’s business that doesn’t have any place in the staff room.”

  “Nic told us, jeez. Calm your tits.” Maxy grunted unhappily around his own cig as he swept the dominoes together and mixed them around. “Why don't you try pulling the stick outta your ass for once, Alexi?”

  My stomach twisted angrily, dropping like I was on a roller coaster: a roller coaster that would end with Maxy’s nose being smashed against the edge of the table if he didn’t shut up. I took in a slow breath, threw another mint in my mouth, and crunched down on it to feel it splinter under my jaws. “My ass, and the contents thereof, are none of your business.”

  “That stick’s shoved up so far it ain’t ever coming out.” Petro wiggled his fingers at me as he dropped back into his seat. “But you gotta keep that hole nice and warmed up for your boyfriend, right?”

  “Lexi’s right. Shut your cockholster, Petro.” Vassily stepped up to my side before I could retort. His shoulders were slightly hunched, defensive—but I didn’t need a guard dog. I needed respect.

  “Come on, Vasya. Alexi can take a little shit.” Petro smirked around his next cigarette, cupping a hand around the end as he lit it. “We’re all grown-ups now, even if he ain’t exactly the man his daddy was.”

  "Good. Because he was worthless.” I ground the words out bulldozer-flat, and stared at him until he met my eyes. “And putting him out of my misery was the best thing I ever did.”

  A toxic silence descended over the room. Vassily’s head turned sharply, and he looked down at me in genuine surprise. Petro’s malice flickered like a candle, briefly flaring before he turned back. Maxy’s silent scorn faded, and
he began to toy nervously with the dominoes in front of his fingers.

  Well. That did it. There was one guiding social force within the Organizatsiya: respect. To be respected, you built a dual reputation as being both useful and dangerous. If you maintained a suitable ratio of competence and intimidation, people didn’t have to like you. They respected you. Being useful without being intimidating got you trampled; being a bully without being useful led to people getting a lethal grudge. Waver in either quality, and someone was always waiting to shove a pistol in through the chink in your armor. As usual, I was off the mark. My retorts were always either too slow or too sharp.

  Vassily looked back and forth, mouth twitched to one side. “So uh... is Nic in his office?”

  “Yeah. Fuckin’ slackass.” Petro did not look at me. “Boozing it up before he goes on the floor.”

  I didn’t look away from him; instead, I made a point of staring at the side of Petro’s face, counting the pulse that jerked rapidly in his throat.

  “Well, I better go in and pay a visit before shit hits the fan here.” Uncertainly, Vassily glanced back to me. “Meet up afterwards?”

  “Yes.” I pulled my gloves up higher on my wrists, tight enough that they creaked around my fingers. I bowed from the neck. “Excuse me.”

  Maxy looked like he was about to say something smart, but seemed to think better of it. I swept out of the room, and once I was alone, ground my teeth until they groaned. Dammit, Vassily. He hadn’t meant to, but he had just cost me a lot of face. And what the hell did Nic think he was playing at, defying Lev’s orders? Gossiping with Maxy and Petro, of all people.

  Resignedly, I ate another peppermint. To get to the offices, I had to walk out past the dressing rooms, cut behind the main stage, and get to the stairwell. I headed backstage around the end of the stripper’s catwalk and was greeted by the sound of pandemonium from beyond the heavy velvet drapes. The lights beyond were flashing, lighting up the star dancers who rested their feet while they waited on their sets. Quite suddenly, I felt my mood lift. Perched on one of the stage boxes in her corset and feather-tufted heels was the Woman. Crina was smoking a black clove cigarette in a long holder, wrist cocked back, her eyes closed. She was tiny and curvaceous, with a hard-planed, boxy little face on a long slender neck. Her hair was very dark, her skin only a few shades deeper than cream. Had she been blonde, we could have passed as brother and sister.