When the speaker shifted from flippancy to suspicion, I was able to place the name to the voice. It was Mikhail, Lev’s bodyguard. The one who had been at the scene with Nacari. “Mikhail, it’s Alexi. You need to put Vassily on the phone.”
“Oh, uh… hey, Molotchik. Fuck, man, he’s, uh… he’s still lying down,” Mikhail slurred. “Yeah. In his room.”
I could practically smell the alcohol on the other man’s breath over the phone, and my lip curled in disgust. Drunk. Vassily would be drunk, too. “Throw some ice on him. I’ll be there in twenty minutes to pick him up.”
“Whoa, hang on, man. You might want to give him a whi—”
I slammed the receiver down and whirled up from the chair on my heel, storming off through the house to collect a bucket, and Vassily’s best interview suit.
My dreams, invaded by the ghosts of the past. My home, invaded by a demon. And now, my best friend, lying to me. I wanted to kill something, but there was nothing to kill except Vassily… and I had a sneaking suspicion that he was already well on the road to killing himself.
Chapter 13
Vanya’s house wasn’t Vanya’s actual residence, the split-level with his wife and children and Great Dane. When the muzhiki of the Organization said they were going to Vanya’s, they meant the Coney Island penthouse with the wraparound windows, fully stocked bar, and generously proportioned callgirls.
I was so angry I was running a fever. A few seconds after I banged on the door, I heard a shuffling, lurching rustle from inside. An unfamiliar blonde woman answered, dressed in nothing but one of Vanya’s enormous striped business shirts. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She had dried flakes of lipstick stuck to her lips. “Allo?”
“They’re expecting me.” The woman’s shirt was open. I looked down sharply, staring at her vivid pink toenails. “Here to pick up Vassily.”
She laughed a shrill laugh that was the same color as her nail polish and let me pass. “Vasyl? Vasyl is no good, my friend. He bombed it out.”
I ground my teeth on the way past, scoping the room. Every single light in the house was on, the TV was on but tuned to a dead channel, the screen humming and blank. The fancy granite breakfast counter was cluttered with bottles, cigarette butts, and empty takeout containers. Mikhail lay face-down on the white leather sofa in his briefs. He still had the cordless phone in his hand, and peered up at me as I went by. “Sh’Lexi! You wan’ Vvvasya? He’s, he’s…”
That was as far as he got before he had to lie back down and think about it some more. Fortunately, I already knew where Vassily would be.
The guest bedroom, like the rest of Vanya’s house, was a study in Orientalist fetishism, with rice paper screens and fake silk and geisha dolls. Vanya was an Eric Lustbader fan, and despite being a racist slob, he had a thing for Japanese decor. His house was a temple to mafiya excess, wealth he gained through managing AEROMOR on Sergei’s behalf. The guest bedroom was usually clean, in a sleazy, tasteless sort of way, but I was aghast to find it close and dank. Bags of trash were piled next to a dusty paper screen. The bed was unmade, empty whiskey bottles and beer cans scattered next to the dresser. The red silk sheets were dark with sweat.
The en suite door was open and occupied. I turned into the doorway and stopped, lips pressed together in a bloodless line as my gaze flicked from one point to the next. Vassily, naked and half-sprawled over the edge of the bathtub. A half-finished bottle of pepper horilka spilled beside him. A razor, powder residue, and an empty cellophane twist left on the lid of the toilet.
My stomach twisted in a very unpleasant way at the sour smell of vomit and alcohol. My hands ached, fingertips burning against the leather pads. I went over and nudged Vassily with a toe. A thin groan peeled from his lips, and the corners of my eyes began to tic.
“You idiot.” I hauled Vassily’s head back by the hair, pulled my glove off and jammed my fingers in against his pulse. He was alive, at least, but his heartbeat was thready and quick. “You goddamn idiot. Where the fuck did you get coke? Why the fuck are you doing coke?!”
“Lekshiii?” Vassily looked right through me. His nose was bloody, his eyes huge in a very pale, very sweaty face.
“Yes. Lexi, you insufferable, lying moron.” My voice rose in anger. I should have been gentle, but I couldn’t bring myself to baby him. I hauled Vassily back by his underarms and propped him against the side of the spa tub, fighting down the very real urge to kick him in the teeth. Instead, I pulled the glove back on and started the water to wash away the mess in the tub. “Ka’kovo ’hooya? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! What’ll Mariya say to this? Don’t think I won’t tell her.”
Vassily cringed away from my voice. He tried to reply, but as the words formed, so did the next round of spew. I clapped a hand on his skull and turned his head just in time, pointing his mouth at the porcelain so he puked violently into Vanya’s fancy hot tub.
Between the noise and the smell and the fatigue from the night before, I was going to go off like an atom bomb. I left him to purge and stalked back out into the bedroom, looking for something to keep me busy besides homicide, anything to take the edge off the boiling, seething anger. I ended up stripping the bedsheets, taking the trash out into the kitchen, and putting the room in order, cleaning until the retching stopped. Only then did I go back inside the bathroom. Vassily was lying on his side on the floor, back turned towards me. I could see the fragile, serrated line of his spine, the play of muscles under the huge cross tattoo on his back.
In the doorway, I paused for a moment and sighed.
I mopped Vassily’s face and hands before I eased him over my lap, cradling his cold weight in my arms. It was the first time I’d seen him undressed since he’d gotten out of prison, and now that there was time to look, I noticed things I hadn’t had time to see before. He had a shank scar on his forearm: that was new. He was thinner, his ribs visible through his skin. His nails were cracked. The sight of his toenails, ridged from years of poor nutrition and high stress, brought me back to myself. I looked down the tattooed length of Vassily’s body and then back to his face. He was rousing slowly, gaze wandering as he swam back to consciousness. Eventually, he fixed on my face. His eyes were as bright as black stars, and the expression of intoxicated longing in them made my mouth feel full and blue and bittersweet.
“Moron,” I rumbled. “Can you sit up?”
“Sure. Maybe.” Vassily rasped.
I eventually got him upright and, with some flailing arms and careful bracing, limped over with him to the bed. We had shared a double bed as young boys, but it was odd climbing in beside him as an adult. I was still furious and desperately needed sleep, and because I couldn’t sleep, I wanted to beat the shit out of something. But I couldn’t do that, either.
It was close to an hour before Vassily stirred again. I hadn’t realized I was dozing until his arm groped over my chest, startling me out of a frustrated, dizzy reverie.
“Lekshi?”
My eyes didn’t want to open. When they did, I glared at the rows of paper lamps overhead. They were gaudy and pointless. “What?”
“Sorry.” Vassily patted me awkwardly. Chest, belly, arm. “You’re… good friend. Good. Sorry.”
“If you keep touching me like that, I will break your fingers.”
“Sorry. Was real worried, you know. When you… gone. Sh’ I knew… Lekshi’s real good. Real tough. Sorry.”
I wasn’t certain what Vassily was apologizing for, but it didn’t sound like he was apologizing for the right thing. I frowned. “You listen to me, because I’m only going to say it once. I spent nearly half my childhood dealing with this sort of shit, and I’m not going to put up with it with you.”