quit. It made little sense. Maya had said that it was because Sasha had never known his father that Rostnikov had become a father figure. Maybe, Sasha admitted, it was something like that.
He put the razor down on the little metal rack hanging from the shower head and rinsed off, being careful to place the precious bar of soap carefully back in the rack, where it would not be worn away by the shower water. A trickle of blood from his cheek joined the water going down the drain. He stopped singing abruptly and watched it dreamily. His hand reached up and turned off the water, but Sasha did not move. There was a mirror outside the shower, but he did not want to look. He touched the washcloth to his cut and tried to awaken from the trance.
When he pushed back the curtain, Zelach was standing there with a look of concern on his face.
'Are you all right?'
In fact, Zelach was the superior officer. In practice, they both knew that Sasha was in charge. Zelach had seen other policemen go into a zombie mode. It was usually the smart ones, the sensitive ones, like Sasha. When it happened, these officers were sent on vacations, from which some of them returned, while others went on to become clerks or bartenders.
'I'm fine,' said Tkach, reaching for the towel on a hook outside the door.
'You're bleeding,' said Zelach.
'I know,' Sasha said, stepping out. 'I'm fine. Go back in front of the door. I 'm fine.''
Zelach turned reluctantly and obeyed.
Sasha dried himself slowly and then wiped the moisture-covered mirror and looked at himself. On the surface it was an innocent, youthful face with a spot of blood on the left cheek. It was not a Jewish face, but many Jews he knew, including Rostnikov's wife, did not have faces that were particularly Jewish looking. He reached for the glasses and put them on. Even then he did not look Jewish, though he did look like a sloo 'zhashchee, an office worker, a bureaucrat. The thought depressed him. He dressed quickly, determined to go out and find a phone so that he could talk to Maya and hear Pulcharia's voice before her bedtime.
Yakov Krivonos looked down at Carla's body. Her red hair spread out, framing her face, and the blood dripping from her nostrils mingled with it. He would write a song about this moment, even though the dull streetlight robbed the scene of its true color.
It suddenly seemed very important that he remember Carla's last name. She had told him once. It was something like No 'veey got, New Year. No, no, it wasn't.
She was certainly dead, and since he had thrown her out the window, the least he could do was remember her last name. Looking down at her did nothing to help him. Someone behind him on the compact disc player shouted with joy. A breeze sucked in through the shattered window, trying to push Yakov gently back. He considered, seriously considered, leaping from the window ledge. He was almost certain he could fly, well, not quite fly, but keep himself suspended by will, moving slowly down. Yes, he could do it. He seemed to remember having done it before. He stepped onto the ledge.
Then he saw the face of death look up at him, and he hesitated. There, floating white below him, moving forward across the street, eyes fixed on him, the face floated in a sea of black. Perhaps if he jumped death would catch him.
He looked around for Jerold, almost called for him to come and see the face of death, but Jerold had dropped Carla and gone home. Yakov looked down again, and death was no longer there.
What had Carla done? It had only been seconds ago, and yet he couldn't remember what had caused him to push her through the window. It had something to do with … Yes, she had called him a name, but what name? What difference did it make?
Far away he heard the sound of a police siren. Amazing. Could they be coming this way already? Where had this sudden efficiency come from? Reluctantly, Yakov Krivonos stepped back from the window and looked around the^room. It would be better to leave. He did not want to die before he saw Las Vegas, but what should he take with him?
He stepped over to the table and scooped most of the remaining capsules Jerold had left him into his palm and then plunged the handful into his pocket. He repeated this twice. The money on the table he folded over and stuffed in his rear pocket. His two-handled blue canvas bag with 'Miami' emblazoned on it lay on the bed. He walked slowly to it, scooped it up, and moved to the CD player.
Yakov began dropping the CDs into the bag. Music continued as he worked. It was, he thought, like a scene from Miami Vice. He had three videotapes of Miami Vice.
Jerold had watched with him, telling Yakov what was happening. Yakov loved the dealers, the wild dealers, who took, killed, laughed. They were alive. The police on those shows were bores who triumphed not because they were better but because it was time to end each episode.
That was it. Yakov had what he needed. The sirens loomed closer. He moved to the window and looked down again. Three men and a woman stood around Carla's body.
Another woman knelt at Carla's side.
'Leave her,' Yakov shouted. 'She looks beautiful.'
They looked up at him, startled, transfixed.
Yakov shook his head at then' stupidity. He rummaged through the bag of CDs, finding one by Sting. Carla had liked it. Yakov hated it. She could have it. He hurled it down, launching it with a flip of the wrist. The silver disc sailed past the windows below, skimmed the top of the car Carla had hit, and shot over the head of the kneeling woman. The people scattered, and Yakov wasn't sure whether to find another expendable disc, take another capsule, or just get out.
He was reluctant to simply leave. Carla had given her life for this moment.
The other movie Jerold had shown him, the other one Jerold liked, the one with James Cagney. Jerold had said that Yakov looked like James Cagney. This did not please Yakov at first, but he had gradually grown used to the idea.
Yes, standing in this window, he was ready to explode. 'Look, Mother. On top of the world,' he shouted in English.
But Yakov was not going down with the building. He turned away from the window and headed for the door. The CD was still playing. How could that be? He had fought with Carla about it, and she had been dead for hours or minutes.
His hand was reaching for the knob when someone knocked once.
Yakov pulled his hand back as if the knob were white with heat. He knew who was at his door. Death was at his door. He should welcome Death. Better, he should kill Death. Then everyone would live forever. Rules would have to be made so there would be no more babies or the world would overflow.
Yakov looked at himself in the mirror next to the door, the mirror in which Carla spent so much time admiring herself. The gnome with orange hair arranged in five spiked points grinned at him. His orange shirt, which matched his hair, was buttoned at the collar, and his jeans were properly faded.
Death knocked again, and Yakov shouted, 'Wait a moment. I'm thinking.'
What would happen to someone you killed if Death died? This was profound. Jerold should hear it. If the sirens would stop, if the music would stop, if Death would be patient, Yakov would have the riddle of life solved. Before he was even eighteen, Yakov Krivonos would be famous, or he would be if he chose to be, if he chose to share his secret with the world.
'Fuck them,' he said. 'It's mine.'
'Police,' the voice of Death said. 'Open the door.'
Yakov reached into his canvas bag for a trick and came up with his Sturm.44mm Blackhawk revolver. Yakov had to put his canvas bag down so he could hold the nearly three-pound gun in both hands. He leveled the 7 1/2- inch barrel at the door and waited for Death to knock again.
There was no knock, and Yakov sensed that he had little time. Death might not be so easy to stop. He put the revolver down and reached back inside the canvas bag for a second weapon, a compact rifle he held at his side, his left hand on the pistol grip, his right steadying the stock of the weapon.
He fired, holding the rifle steady, as Jerold had taught him. A hole appeared in the door, and the bullet sang across the hall and through the door of the next apartment. He fired again. Another hole. From outside in the hall a woman screamed, and a man shouted at her to shut up.
Yakov moved to the door and fired twice more. And then he opened it and stepped out. Death was not on the right but standing at the end of the corridor on the left, blocking the stairwell about twenty yards away, a small
