The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

Rostnikov loved circuses. He had taken Iosef many times when Iosef was a boy. He had already taken the two little girls twice. And Sarah, Sarah loved the beautiful, sad clowns and the graceful aeri-alists. Perhaps he could get tickets after this meeting and take Sarah, the girls, and their grandmother. Perhaps he would invite Iosef. Maybe he could even talk Karpo into coming.

Yes, perhaps, and perhaps a circus fairy would leap from the pages of a Lermontov book and give him the money to pay for such an outing.

He wanted to call Sarah, but there was no way of doing so now.

He would simply go home after this meeting and discuss the surgery.

Cashierovsky, a small, pudgy man with very little hair and a wheeze of asthma abetted by the growing pollution of the city, moved as quickly as he could to serve his guests.

“Looks good,” said Rostnikov. “Emil?”

“It looks very good.”

“Tomatoes were a treat when I was a boy,” said Rostnikov, picking up his sandwich.

Cashierovsky stood waiting.

“Delicious,” said Rostnikov, chewing on the bite of sandwich he had taken.

Karpo bit into his roll. “Very satisfying,” he said.

“Peto,” Rostnikov said, “some men will be here in about ten minutes. Two men, I hope. Would you leave the door unlocked and stand near it in case others wish to ignore the ‘closed’ sign?”

“Of course,” said Cashierovsky, already moving back behind the counter.

“You remember my friend Cashierovsky?” asked Rostnikov, savoring his sandwich and mineral water.

“Yes,” said Karpo, slowly eating his roll and sipping his tea.

“Three students from Moscow University beat him, his wife, and his sons, because they are Jewish. They broke his windows and told him to move.”

“What a memory,” said Rostnikov, genuinely impressed, since the incident had happened almost a decade earlier when Rostnikov was still chief inspector in the Office of the Procurator General.

Karpo had not helped with that case. Rostnikov had quickly found the three students and given them the choice of court and certain prison, or dropping out of school and going their separate ways outside of Moscow, after turning over a sum sufficient for Cashierovsky to repair his restaurant. He had also warned them that they would be watched for the rest of their lives, that they were now in the central computer.

The trio had left within a day.

Had they remained, Rostnikov was certain the insane justice system would have been sympathetic to them and probably let them go with a mild warning and a token fine that would not even repair one window they had broken. As for keeping their names in a central computer, it was little better than a joke. Rostnikov wondered what university students were being taught if they did not know the system was nearly useless. The only ones at the time who had decent monitoring systems were the KGB, and they would have no interest in cluttering the memories of their computers with such matters.

But that was long ago. Times had changed. The bureaucracy was different. Things were worse.

Chenko, the one-eyed Tatar, was the first to arrive. The young man who had met Rostnikov before his first encounter with Chenko came out of a car illegally parked at the curb. The windows of the car were tinted. The young man looked both ways and around the street. Then he looked through the window, saw Rostnikov, and returned to open the back door of the parked car. A moment later Chenko came out of the car and quickly entered the door of the restaurant, which the young man helped open for him.

The man stood outside the door, his back to the restaurant, and Chenko moved forward to the table.

“What is this?” said the Tatar.

“A tomato sandwich,” said Rostnikov.

“I don’t like jokes,” said Chenko, cocking his head from side to side to look at the two men.

“Neither does my associate,” Rostnikov said, nodding at Karpo.

“Please sit.”

“If this is a trap,” Chenko said, “my men have been ordered to kill both of you very painfully and then to do the same to all the members of your families till your line is erased.”

“That,” said Rostnikov, “is very colorful. The Godfather, something like that. I believe you, Casmir Chenko. Your problem is that if we were to be killed, our friends would destroy your families. We could start a regular old-style feud with our descendants killing each other, forgetting eventually why they were doing so. This is not a trap. Please sit.”

The gnarled, one-eyed man sat at the table with his back to the side wall. He was between the two policemen.

“Mineral water? Something to eat?”

“Nothing,” said Chenko. “I will remain here for five minutes, no longer.”

At this point, Cashierovsky appeared with a large, round metal tray covered with small plates of food- ukha, fish soup; meat boiled in kvass and served with kasha. He placed the plates and forks out for the men, and, after putting the empty tray on the counter, the shopkeeper moved to stand next to the front door of his establishment, as Rostnikov had asked him.

Rostnikov’s eyes moved to the door as did Chenko’s single eye.

Karpo did not turn. He finished the last piece of his roll and served himself a plate of kasha. Rostnikov ate with one hand, the other in his lap within easy reach of the weapon under his jacket.

Chenko started to rise. “I will not talk to him,” he said.

“You don’t have to,” said Rostnikov. “I would like you to simply listen to me. Sit, please.”

Rostnikov knew that Chenko’s gesture had been for show. In his call asking the Tatar to meet here, he had been clear that Shatalov would also be present.

Outside the door Shatalov posted his own man, who stood facing Chenko’s young man. There was certainly a carful of Chechins close by.

Shatalov moved to the table. His smile was gone. He did not look at Chenko. “There is no point to this,” said Shatalov. “It is too late for talk. I agreed to a truce and he. . that smirking Tatar murdered one of my best men.”

“You are here, sit,” said Rostnikov. “Casmir Chenko did not murder your man as you had not murdered his man.”

“I. .”

“You will please sit,” said Rostnikov loudly, bringing a fist down on the table that made the two men outside the restaurant and Peto Cashierovsky start nervously.

Shatalov sat and motioned to his man outside that everything was calm. Chenko did the same.

“I now know you have a temper, policeman,” said Shatalov, “and terrible taste in clothes.”

“My anger comes unbidden. As for the clothes, I had an accident,” said Rostnikov.

“Others can be arranged,” said Shatalov, looking at Chenko for the first time.

“Easily,” said Chenko.

“One-eyed, wattle-necked rooster,” said Shatalov, whose white hair looked even whiter than it had the day before.

“Irving,” said Chenko.

“Do you want to know who killed your men and why, or do you want to simply leave here ignorant and continue the war that is costing you lives and rubles?” asked Rostnikov.

“Why do you care?” asked Chenko.

“Innocent people will die,” said Rostnikov. “I don’t care about you or your men. Innocent people have already died because of you.”

Rostnikov picked up the newspaper article which he had placed facedown on the table. He handed it first to Chenko, who cocked his head to one side to read it with his good eye. When Chenko was finished, he handed it back to Rostnikov, who handed it to Shatalov, who read it quickly and returned it to the policeman.

“The name of the boy who died when your men had a street fight, a fight over an insult, not even over territory, a fight. . the name means nothing to you, either of you? The underlined name?”