The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

to. He had considered staying with Oleg, but the police had already been to Oleg and might be checking his apartment for the missing politician. Besides, Oleg had appeared greatly upset by the suggestion that his friend might stay with him. Yevgeny considered telling his friend that he knew of Oleg’s preference for men, had known it for years, probably even before Oleg knew, but if the man wanted to hold onto his image, Yevgeny was not one to pull it from him.

“I have. . visitors,” Oleg had said. “Other coaches, members of the team. It wouldn’t be safe.”

Yulia had left Yevgeny in the park, where he sat on a bench watching some small children play and wondering if it was going to rain. He had money in his pocket but no desire for drink, women, or food.

The children in the park were kicking a soccer ball. They were no more than four or five. The ball came to the seated Pleshkov, who made an effort to kick it back to the children without rising. The kick dribbled off the side of his right foot and rolled a few pathetic feet. One of the children, a boy wearing a shiny purple jacket, picked up the ball and gave the dirty man on the bench a look of disdain. Then the boy ran away shouting, “I’ve got it.”

Years ago, actually not that many years ago, Yevgeny and Oleg had played side by side. Yevgeny was a striker. Oleg was a left-wing. Together they had set park league records, and Oleg had gone on to the professional ranks and a coaching career.

Now, Yevgeny could barely get his foot on the ball.

He had murdered a man. Yulia had photographs and tapes that could mean the end of his career, especially the one that seemed to show Yevgeny nude in bed with an equally nude young man who was kissing him. Yevgeny remembered no such incident. It was Oleg who liked other men, not Yevgeny; Yevgeny had been outspoken in his condemnation of drug use, gangs, homosexuality, and alcohol. His positions were part of the campaign that was winning over the hearts and minds of those who had enough of the pleasures of democracy. Yevgeny was not a Communist, never had been, but he truly believed that the best path to gainiing the rights of hardworking and voting Russians was a return to sanity and order with a new, more temperate democracy.

Yevgeny tilted his head back, rubbed his very bristly chin and face, and knew what he must do. He could not sit all day on this bench watching children play and waiting for the rain. Yulia might or might not return. She would certainly be questioned by the police. No, he could not sit here all day and possibly all night.

He had to relocate some fragment of his dignity. He decided to call his wife and son and ask them to come and get him.

Rostnikov got the message from Karpo. It was sitting on his desk when he returned to Petrovka as thunder shook the walls of his office. Thunder, but still no rain. Rostnikov wore a strange suit of light blue pants and a dark blue jacket he had accepted from Leon’s collection of his late father-in-law’s clothes.

One who didn’t know him might think that the Washtub was making some kind of fashion statement. Those who knew him or of him by sight and who saw him enter the building and go up to his office thought that there was some reason for disguise, though they wondered how anyone who looked like Rostnikov, walked like Rostnikov, and was as familiar to the criminal world as Rostnikov, could possibly think that a disguise would be effective. Maybe the Washtub was simply going mad. Even Rostnikov was not immune to lunacy.

Porfiry Petrovich wanted to call Sarah, had planned to call Sarah, but the message from Emil Karpo changed that. He called Karpo in his cubicle across the hall, and Karpo appeared with the copy of his clipping.

“The same weapon killed both the Tatar and the Chechin,”

said Karpo, placing the copy of the newspaper article on the desk in front of Porfiry Petrovich.

Rostnikov read the article and then placed his calls and scratched at his artificial leg where it itched. Karpo stood in front of the chief inspector’s desk, waiting patiently.

It took Rostnikov almost an hour to reach the two Mafia leaders, and in neither case did he talk to them directly. He gave the message to each person to whom he spoke that Shatalov and Chenko should meet him in one hour at the tourist stolovaya, the self-service restaurant, directly across from the Old Moscow Circus.

“It is a small restaurant, as you may know,” he told each man.

“Filling it with men carrying guns will not encourage business.

Only Chenko and Shatalov will be inside.”

In both cases, the person on the other end of the phone said that they would pass on the message.

“It is essential,” said Rostnikov. “Tell them that I know who the killer is.”

Rostnikov hung up the phone after the second call and sat back.

“Emil Karpo, the world is a strange, sad, wonderful, and horrible place, and Moscow is at the very center.”

“I know,” said Emil Karpo, and Rostnikov believed that the gaunt specter before him did know.

“Did you also know that I am keeping voluminous notes for a book I am writing on the tastes, beliefs, interests, and hobbies of Russians? That I am planning to contact an American agent who will sell it for two million dollars? That I will buy a very small restaurant near my apartment where I will be manager, Anna Timofeyeva will come out of retirement to be the chef, and you will be headwaiter?”

“I do not wish to be a headwaiter.”

“I know, Emil. I was joking.”

“I know you were joking,” said Karpo.

“It is part of my lifelong goal of making you smile, though I fear your laughter might cause your death,” said Rostnikov, examining Karpo’s pale solemn face for some sign of amusement, the slightest twitch in the corner of his mouth, a telltale pursing of the lips.

“Humor has no function for me. I was fortunate to be born without the ability to see humor in anything. I recognize irony, as I have just done with your joke, but it does not amuse me. It does not distract me.”

“That is unfortunate,” said Rostnikov. “Distraction is my solace.”

“And justice, which is unattainable, is mine.”

Chapter Eleven

There was a matinee at the Old Moscow Circus. Rostnikov and Karpo had arrived early, and Porfiry Petrovich had talked to the owner of the very small stolovaya with only three tables and a stand-up cafeteria-service counter that ran the length of the shop. The man who owned the shop owed Rostnikov a big favor. The restaurant owner, whose name was Cashierovsky, said he would put a

“closed” sign in the window immediately. The show was beginning at the circus in fifteen minutes, and most of the remaining restaurant patrons would be attending it.

“Can I bring you something?” the man had said. “My pleasure to treat you?”

“Pahmadoori? ” asked Rostnikov.

“Yes.”

“Good, then booterbrod pahmadoori, tomato sandwich,” said Rostnikov. “And a mineral water. Emil?”

“Nothing.”

“You will hurt Cashierovsky’s feelings,” said Rostnikov, who had chosen the table farthest back from the door, which he faced, with Karpo opposite him.

“Tea and a roll,” said Karpo.

“He is a monk,” Rostnikov explained.

Cashierovsky smiled. He knew well who the Vampire was.

Cashierovsky hurried to fill their order, put out the “closed” sign, and shooed out the remaining patrons, telling them that he had to shut down because he was going to the circus.

They were early. It still wasn’t raining.

The day and the view of the circus reminded Rostnikov of another day several years earlier, when he had stood in the rain and watched a circus performer commit suicide by leaping from the head of the statue of Nikolai Gogol in Gogol Square. It had happened right before the eyes of Rostnikov and the traffic policeman in the nearby tower, in addition to dozens of spectators, some of whom had urged the man to jump.