Moscow Noir

Now that was going too far.

“I earned it,” I told him. But my voice came out sounding choked and hoarse, like a crow cawing.

“I’m taking you down,” the cop said colorlessly, and suddenly—I swear—his teeth started chattering, maybe from the cold or, most likely, from hunger, the greedy bastard.

I gave him another hundred bucks, promising myself that this was the last time. I really didn’t want any problems with law-enforcement officers, but arrogance has its limits, even from a cop. And four hundred is definitely the limit. If he tried to get any more out of me, I’d kill him.

Again, he studied my contribution, then hid it away. He sniffed. Coughed uncertainly.

“Any more questions, officer?” I croaked, pulling the mitten off my frozen hand so that it would be easier to shoot if he said yes, and cursing myself for the servile “officer,” which had rolled off my lips like a token rolling out of the broken turnstile at the john in Kursk station.

By the way, don’t ever take a piss at Kursk. Unless, of course, you like pissing into a reeking hole in the cold in front of other people for fifteen rubles.

A passenger train pulled into the station with a shriek and a groan. The cop squinted lazily at the train and then stole a glance at my bare fingers—too clean, too smooth, and my nails were too manicured. He was thinking hard about something, which was obviously not easy for him. He wrinkled his low forehead, and his eyebrows twitched like cockroaches. Finally the twitching stopped.

“Who are you?” he asked, and looked me in the eye for the first time, intently and with some degree of intelligence. He was obviously on the brink of some kind of realization.

I felt the icy handle of the gun in my pocket. To be honest, I don’t like guns. I’m a bad shot, anyway. On the other hand, even a fool can shoot. Right. First you just cock it back …

Foxy Lee hadn’t wanted to give me the gun. That put me on my guard. She kept pushing me gently toward the door, shaking her red mane of hair and mumbling, “You won’t be needing that. Come on! You don’t need it.” Then she caught my stare and her face crumpled up like she was hurt. “You don’t believe me, do you? Just like before!”

I thought she was going to start bawling. But she didn’t. She handed me the gun, barrel first, and frowned. That’s not how you do it. Handgrip first, I said to myself automatically, and took the gun from her, feeling ashamed again.

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” said Foxy. “If anything happens, one of my guys will be at the station. He’ll help you.”

Suddenly I felt uncomfortable.

“One of your guys? What does that mean?”

“Ours,” Foxy corrected herself playfully. “Our guy. A friend.” She put her arms around my neck. Her hands were cool and her fingertips were slightly moist.

“I’ll get along fine without your friends.” I wanted to pull away, but she wouldn’t let me.

“Don’t be jealous,” Foxy whispered into my ear. “It was a long time ago.”

That made me even more mad. A long time ago, what the hell is that supposed to mean? When Stary picked you up at the train station you were seventeen, a filthy, skinny little redhead. You’re twenty-one now. Only twenty-one, girl! So what the hell does that mean—a long time ago?

She stroked my cheek. Her fingers smelled sweetly of flower-scented hand cream and blood.

“I’ll be with you,” said Foxy. “If that’s what you want.”

I nodded and said I did. I was angry and I wanted her, and I kissed her red hair, and her thick blond eyelashes, her little palms and those fingers—cold, moist fingers that she hadn’t managed to wash very well. I kissed them and inhaled their scent, animal-like and childish at the same time.

“Listen to me, buddy!” the cop said, his voice rising. “Who the fuck are you?”

“… two … three …” I whispered.

“What?!”

I decided to count to seven, my favorite number, and then shoot.

“… four …”

People started filing out of the train that had just pulled in, making a wide semicircle around the spot where I stood with the cop. Some character in a leather jacket with a shaved head shuffled by, looking furtively at us. Then he stopped and stared.

“Keep moving!” the cop barked at him.

The guy walked straight toward us.

“Let me see your ID,” the cop demanded, taken aback.

“Cn I’ve a wrd ith you, offcr?” mumbled the guy in leather, completely unfazed but slurring every sound. He gestured to the cop amiably.

The cop turned to me and then to the leather guy—and froze.

“C’mon, c’mon,” the leather guy said, still slurring his words, but this time in a more commanding tone. “Git ovr here, offcr.”

Suddenly, the eyes of the officer took on the expression of an animal, a mix of sharp sadness and surprise, and he silently strode over to the leather guy the way a dog goes to its trainer when it has mixed up its commands.

The fellow in leather whispered a few brief words into the cop’s ear. The cop looked at me from under his brow, nodded dejectedly, and sauntered off into the darkness.

“Offcr!” the leather guy called after him quietly.

“Aren’t you frgetting smethin?”

The cop’s back slumped.

“Didn ya take smthin tht didn blong to ya?”

The back didn’t so much as stir.

“Git outta here,” the guy in leather said, softening, and the cop rushed off, his boots crunching on the frozen crust of snow.

“Watch it, buddy!” The guy in leather advised me good-naturedly, then winked and moved away.

“Thanks,” I replied politely, but he didn’t turn around.

Buddy. Uh-huh, right.

* * *

And so I’m waiting for mercy. It should be here soon.

Here it is now. It just came around the corner, stopped next to the train station, and opened its doors to me.

Mercy, as everyone knows, is blurry and abstract. It can assume many different forms: from a coin at the bottom of your pocket to a blank check, from a plastic doggie bag to a benefit concert, from a kiss to artificial respiration, from a Validol pill to a shot in the head, from the ability to love to the ability to kill.

The mercy granted me is concrete. It takes the form of a dirty white bus. It is given to me for one night—this cold, dark, terrible, final, happy, damned night—and I will accept it without hesitation.

On this cold night, when you can freeze to death in an hour.

On this dark night, when you can disappear without a trace in a minute.

On this terrible night, when they’re looking for me high and low: in apartments and bars, in subways and airports, at hotels and movie theaters, in nightclubs and casinos, on the streets and in stairwells.

On this final night they are looking for me so they can kill me.

On this happy night, when they won’t find me because no one will think to look for me here, on the Mercy Bus that saves the homeless from hunger and cold.

Mercy is what I need on this damned night.

That is why I fall before the open doors of the bus. I cough, I snort, and I wheeze. I crawl on all fours as though I don’t have the strength to stand up, and I stretch my trembling hands toward them—toward three people in blue jackets, with red crosses on their sleeves and the word Mercy on their backs, and gauze masks pulled tight over their faces. I babble, my tongue tripping on the sounds.

I crawl at their feet, touching their shoes and begging: “… Help … save me …” I sniff, then grovel: “Save me …”

Foxy taught me to do that. “There aren’t many seats on the bus,” she said. “They only take the ones who are