Quiller Balalaika

'Boss,' he said, 'I -'

'Get over there. Against the wall.'

'Boss, I can explain – there were too many people in the -'

'Get over there.'

The man ducked his head, pulling off his fur hat as he trotted across the room, turning when he reached the wall and standing there with the collar of his coat still turned up against the chill of the streets, one lapel bent back untidily, his thin hair pulled away from the bald patch by the action of taking off his hat, his face grey as he forced himself to look into the eyes of the Cougar. A hit man, Moskolets, older than the chorus boys in their monogrammed jump suits, a more experienced attendant, a specialist in the art of the distant kill, rat-tat-tat, wishing perhaps that he had his gun out now and ready to make the most important hit of his life, the one that would end the terror that was in him now.

In the silence I could hear tyre-chains clinking in the street below, even through the double-glazed and possibly bullet-proof windows. Snow must be falling again, and this too was noted as a change in the environment. A red sector is a red sector, and the most trivial factors can suddenly become critical.

Vishinsky moved at last, going back to the chrome-and-vinyl chair and sitting down, and as he turned I saw his eyes had changed again, were almost expressionless as he looked across at the man standing against the wall.

'Explain, then,' he said, sing-song, as if to a child.

'Boss, there were five or six people – more than that – maybe seven or eight people, and two of them were -'

'Don't fiddle with your hat, Yuri.'

The man looked down at his hands, stilling them, bringing his head up again with his face crumpling. This new role-playing – of parent and child – began to fascinate me as I was shown yet another side to Vishinsky's psychotic character: from a blaze of explicit rage he was capable of getting himself back under control, of driving his emotions inwards and holding them there with the potential of an unexploded bomb. And there was something appropriate in the parent-child relationship – the Russian word 'sobri' was as close as the mafiyosa could get to the Al Capone title of 'boss', but it also had a suggestion of 'father' about it, as in the French 'patron'.

'Two of them were cops, boss. You wouldn't have wanted me to make a hit in front of the cops, I knew that, I was sure of that.' His small mouth hanging open, his breath fluttering, his eyes pleading now.

'Was it snowing, Yuri?'

'Snowing? Yes. Starting to come down quite a bit. The cops – '

'How was the street? '

'The street, boss?'

'The surface. Try and understand what I'm saying, Yuri. And straighten your collar.'

The man's hands fumbled with it, then he looked up again – was this better, was this pleasing to his sobri? 'The – the surface,' he said, lost, then made a try. 'The surface had got some snow on it. Not much, just a little.' Was that the right answer?

'So you could have made an immediate getaway,' Vishinsky said, his tone light, chiding, 'as soon as you'd got the shots in. Isn't that right?'

'Boss, I -'

'Isn't that right?'

'With the cops there, I -'

'Vitali,' Vishinsky said to the guard near him. 'Bring me that imbecile's revolver.'

'Boss,' the man against the wall said, 'Boss, I did what I thought was right -'

'Shut your mouth.'

Moskolets unbuttoned his coat and the guard took his gun and brought it over to Vishinsky, presenting the butt with deference, his eyes uneasy. This had been enacted before, then, this little charade; it had its own traditional choreography, and every man in the room was familiar with it, and on edge.

Moskolets: 'Boss, don't do this to me. Don't -'

'Shut up, you stupid son of a whore! You know that fucking judge is going to be in court tomorrow, and he's got my brother up on a charge? Didn't you know that?'

'Yes, boss, but I -'

'Shut the fuck up!'

Vishinsky's hands were trembling as he hit the chamber of the gun open and shook five of the bullets out, scattering them onto the carpet and snapping the chamber back and giving the gun to the guard.

'Boss' – the voice of Moskolets, high-pitched now, a small boy's whimper – 'Boss, I didn't mean to -'

'Vitali, give him the gun.'

'Sure, boss.'

'Don't make me do it, for the sake of the holy Christ -'

'I'm giving you a chance, Moskolets. You do this or they take you to the forest, don't you understand? You spin that thing six times. Do it right and you can get out of here with your fucking skin, don't you know charity when you see it?'

'Boss, please, boss, for the sake -' his voice cracking.

But he took the gun, looked at it as if he'd never seen one before, silent now, his mouth shaking, his eyes wide, such are your typical hit men, put them on the wrong side of their favourite toy and this is what you see, call it a jelly-fish, not good to look upon without a sour rush of contempt into the mouth.

'Play,' Vishinsky cut across him, 'play!'

The guard Vitali stood away from the man quickly, perhaps bearing in mind how far a jet of blood will reach when an artery's hit, and there was a click as Moskolets pulled the trigger, another click as he pulled it again, wanting suddenly to get it over, know the worst, was that it?

I watched Vishinsky's face, the eyes of the Cougar, as he stared at the roulette-player, unblinking. Behind him the guard had his own eyes narrowed, his mouth compressed, his head jerking a degree as Vishinsky's voice came.

'Play, you fucking clod, come on, three – fire!'

Another click, the man's finger moving as if to the force of the other man's voice, the face of Moskolets now bright with sweat, his hand shaking as he kept the gun held to his temple, his eyes no longer registering anything as his mind passed beyond terror and beyond despair, dwelling in oblivion, already -

'Play, Moskolets, you -'

Crash of the gun and the guard jumped forward to catch the man as the blood bloomed crimson across the skull and the thick squat body jack-knifed into Vitali's arms.

'Mind the carpet, don't get blood on the carpet!'

'Okay, boss,' cradling Moskolets' head against his jump-suit as he lowered the body, two of the other guards moving in to help him.

'Get a bag.' Vishinsky's voice quiet now as the cordite fumes curdled in the air below the lamp. 'Put him into a bag and give me his gun.'

'Sure, boss.'