“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Maxim scanned the hostile territory around him.
“What’s wrong with me? Where were you three years ago? I wrote to you from St. Pete. Tried to get hold of you. And where were you a year ago, when I was all alone, up to my neck in shit? What’s wrong with me?”
“Give me a break! I moved into a new place and got a new number. And I’m not in Moscow much anyway. Come on. What can I do to help you now? I mean it, right now.”
It was obvious the guy was in bad shape. He was angry at the whole world, and appeared comfortable that way. His body language was saying, Forgot about me, the bastards, stabbed me in the back! Not one single son of a bitch came around when I needed help. Well, I don’t need you assholes anymore. Scram! Guys like that never admit that it is they, and not the “bastards,” “sons of bitches,” or “assholes,” who are to blame for their misfortunes. Backed up by such sentiments, they enjoy not shaving and going for weeks without changing their underwear; guzzling Ohota or Baltika 9 as they go under, until they stop somewhere about six feet beneath the earth’s surface and worms start gnawing at what’s left of them. Even worse, Maxim once heard about a dog breeding company where bull terriers were fed a diet of homeless people, live homeless people, to turn the dogs into killers and cannibals.
“You should have helped me out back then when I needed it, before I ended up in Moscow,” said Nikita.
When, at last, he ran out of excuses to prop up his ego, Nikita told his story. It turned out that three years before, in St. Petersburg, he had made some big money and decided to move to Moscow. What’s the big deal, everybody’s going! It’s the city of unlimited possibilities. So he sold his Petersburg apartment and added that money to the bundle he’d received from Valya Matvienko for working on her election campaign, and bought a three-bedroom apartment at Pure Ponds, one that was big enough to house their whole damn platoon back in Kandahar. He partied for a month, spending dollars like they were five-kopek coins. After that, he settled in. Turned out that the easiest part was finding a mate. Or something like that. Whatever. She was beautiful, smart, sexy, and devoted. Or she seemed devoted back then. That was why, three months later, he awarded her the official status of wife, and a note was made of this both in his passport and in an official registry book.
Making a living in Moscow proved much more difficult. He tried opening a souvenir shop on Taganka. They wouldn’t let him. He set up a snack shop at Kitai-Gorod. It was burned down two weeks later. He signed a contract to deliver a small consignment of Polish perfume. He got cheated, cost him fifty grand. Well, after that he gave up on having his own business and got a job as a security guard at the Reutov casino. His salary, plus the interest he received on the Petersburg money he’d put in the bank, was enough to live on quite comfortably.
Fate, however, decided to play a trick on the Afghan war hero. The bank went bust. With great difficulty, Nikita managed to get a tenth of his savings back. But he lost even that at the very same casino where he worked. He went in one weekend just to try his luck. Just about hit the jackpot too. His wife’s devotion, like snow in April, began to melt steadily.
She soon turned into a terrible fury. Even so, her three other good qualities remained. She was sexy (though she stopped sharing that particular quality with her husband). Beautiful. And smart. In fact, she was smart enough to kick Nikita out of the apartment three days ago.
“What are you, some kind of wuss?” said Maxim. “Show her who’s boss! You’ve got fists, don’t you? Tell her to get the hell out.”
“She reregistered the apartment in her own name. I’m like the heir or something.”
“Then kill her! Have you forgotten how it’s done? Make it look like an accident.”
“I can’t. I just got baptized. I made a vow, for the rest of my life. Besides, look.” Nikita stuck his arms out in front of him, palms facing downward. His fingers shook visibly, like those of an alcoholic.
“Ouch,” said Maxim, shaking his head. “I’d head for a monastery, bro. And how about your vow never to touch the drink again?”
They were both silent for a moment, puffing on their cigarettes.
“How about this,” Maxim said, interrupting the silence. “I’ll kick her out myself. Then you’ll be off the hook. Where’s your place?”
Nikita gave him an address. It was nearby, 12 Pure Ponds Boulevard.
Maxim waited around until someone opened the door at the main entrance and then held it open for the young mother pushing a stroller. He went up to the third floor and turned off the switch in the fuse box he found in the hallway. Behind the door, where Nikita’s wife Zhanna lived, the television set fell silent.
Maxim went up one more flight of stairs. He waited, giving her time to call the electric company, who would tell her that everything was working down at the station and that she should check her fuse box.
Of course, Zhanna peered through the peephole, but not seeing even the smallest sign of danger she opened the door. Before she had time to realize what was happening, she was back inside the apartment, a hand pressed over her mouth and her arms clamped to her sides.
Maxim turned the key in the lock twice and carried Zhanna deeper into the apartment.
She tried to resist.
“Don’t make any noise,” he said in a whisper. “If you keep quiet, I’ll let you live. Got it? Whisper.” Slowly, he uncovered her mouth and relaxed his grip. Zhanna was silent as she studied the intruder.
“Money?” she asked softly.
“No.”
“Oh, I get it. My jackass sent you over to say hi. My ex-jackass, that is.”
“He said you were smart, and he wasn’t lying.”
It was then that Maxim noticed that she was also beautiful. Beautiful, as in sexy. The thought occurred to him that there was no real difference between one rape or two. Nikita would understand.
So he changed the character of his grasp: from clenched, to imploring.
He noticed with surprise that she did not try to resist. On the contrary, she seemed to press her body toward him (and she smelled so deliciously female!). She gasped with excitement.
Maxim had an instant hard-on.
But he didn’t lose his head. He took off his coat with the webcam that was always hooked up to the game server, and hung it up in the hall so that the camera was facing the wall. There was no reason for them to watch this.
Zhanna moaned. She squeaked. It was unbelievable. You only come across this kind of girl once every six months, Maxim thought to himself.
He drilled her in her cornhole like a wild animal. Like a baboon. Like an orangutan. And she enjoyed it.
That crazy bitch couldn’t get enough. “More!” she howled, cursing like a Shanghai whore giving herself to a platoon of sailors.
They peeled themselves apart. He listened without interrupting as she praised him. He listened as she cursed her impotent husband. As she begged him to stay. Forever. How happy they would be together. Fucking amazing. Those were the exact words she used: Fucking amazing. But she didn’t just say them. She sang the words, which lost their foulness and gained a certain eloquence. Maxim listened quietly, nodding his head. Dream on, baby, he thought. Dream on.
And then he drilled her some more, with the same ferocity.
He came.
Then he noticed she had an Adam’s apple.
Fuck!
A transvestite!
It was a dirty and dangerous game that Nikita had gotten him into.
He stayed cool, not letting on that he had noticed.
“Let me get us some drinks,” said the transvestite. “Okay?”
“Sure.”