As Jenkins approached, the punk slapped the woman hard across the face.
“You don’t want to lick up the beer, dog?” He slapped her a second time, just as hard. “Perhaps there is something else you want to lick. Huh?” He forced the woman to her knees, now gripping her hair. Blood trickled from her nose and the corner of her mouth. He unzipped his fly, but he swore when he struggled to pull himself free.
“Vozmozhno, vy ne mozhete yego nayti, potomu chto on takoy malen’kiy,” Jenkins said. Perhaps you’re having trouble finding it because it’s so small.
The mountain quickly swiveled. His hand moved to the bulge under his leather jacket, but the punk raised a hand, stopping him. The punk shoved the woman onto the ground and stepped from the cone of light, squinting as if having trouble seeing Jenkins.
“Chto ty skazal, starik?” What did you say, old man?
Jenkins kept one eye on the mountain’s hands. “I said, perhaps the reason you’re having trouble finding your pecker is because it’s so small.”
The punk smiled, but with uncertainty. He was no doubt debating whether the old man insulting him was drunk, simpleminded, or had lost his mind altogether. He looked to his companion, who also seemed perplexed. Then the punk laughed. The mountain laughed with him, but again, Jenkins knew it was nerves.
“You have some big balls, old man,” the punk said. “The old man must have big balls, don’t you think, Pavil?”
The mountain nodded.
Jenkins continued to watch the mountain’s hands.
The punk grabbed the pool cue from the brick wall and stepped toward Jenkins. “Perhaps you’d like to show us your big balls. Huh?” He turned and nodded to the woman. “Perhaps you’d like to show her your big balls? What do you say, old man? Would you like a turn?”
Jenkins smiled. “Here’s what I’d like. I’d like you two to go back into the bar and finish your beers and your game of pool. I’ll even buy you a round.”
The young man lost his smile. “You want her all to yourself, old man?” He made lewd gestures with his hands and his hips and spoke to his friend. “The old man does not wish to share, Pavil. So selfish.”
“So selfish,” Pavil said.
“Here I offer to share, and you want to take her all for yourself.”
“The woman is going to leave. She’s going to go home,” Jenkins said.
“Is she?”
“You’ve had your fun. I’m asking you, again, to go back into the bar and finish your beers and your game.”
The young man made a steeple with his hands and put the steeple beneath his chin, as if thinking. “What if . . .” He held up a finger. “What if . . . instead of us going inside, I stay here and fuck the woman while Pavil beats the shit out of you? How do you like that option, old man?”
“You know,” Jenkins said. “I really don’t like being called ‘old.’”
“No?”
“No. You see, I believe age is just a mindset, that if we don’t think of ourselves as old then we aren’t.”
“You are a philosopher,” the punk said.
“No.” Jenkins shook his head. “I’m a pragmatist. Take you, for example. You’re what, twenty-five or six? But you have the mental mindset of a fourteen-year-old prepubescent boy who gets off beating up women.”
“You insult me? Who are you?”
“Just a guy who wanted a little peace and quiet to enjoy a beer and something to eat before going to bed.”
“Looks like you came into the wrong bar at the wrong time.”
“We can all still win here. I’ll go someplace else to eat. The woman goes home. And you and the mountain can go back inside and finish your game.”
The young man broke the pool cue over his knee. “That is no longer an option.” He tossed half the cue to Pavil. “I think we’re going to finish this game right here. Right now.”
The young man lunged and swung the pool cue. Jenkins stepped forward instead of back, so his shoulder absorbed the blow. He grabbed the wrist holding the stick with his left hand, spun, and struck the elbow, hearing a snap. The young man bellowed in agony and dropped to his knees. Pavil, much bigger, but slower, lifted the pool cue like an ax. Again, Jenkins stepped into the man and threw a quick jab, striking Pavil in the trachea. Pavil dropped the cue and grabbed his throat. Jenkins kicked him hard in the groin, then struck Pavil’s chest, knocking him backward, off balance. Pavil toppled garbage cans as he fell into the debris.
The punk, one arm at his side, rose and came at Jenkins, slashing with a knife in his good hand. Jenkins avoided the first strike. When the knife crossed his vision a second time, Jenkins grabbed the arm with his left hand and snapped the wrist. The knife came free. He swung across his body with his right hand, striking the punk in the face and knocking him to the ground. He heard the clatter of garbage cans and turned. Pavil emerged from the debris, gun in hand.
At that same moment, the punk lurched to his feet, eyes burning with rage. He lunged at Jenkins.
The gunshot echoed.
The punk stumbled and fell into Jenkins’s arms.
The bar door to the alley swung open. The bartender. He looked at Jenkins, then at the man slumped in Jenkins’s arms, blood spreading from the wound, staining his T-shirt a burgundy red. The bartender’s eyes widened and he quickly pulled the door shut. At the end of the alley, Pavil retreated, gun still aimed. He stumbled over debris, struggling to keep his balance. Then he turned and ran.
Jenkins set the punk on the ground. The bullet had pierced his back near the left shoulder blade. He checked for a pulse, didn’t find one.
The woman cowered against the wall, looking both confused and scared.
“Seychas vy dolzhny uyti,” Jenkins said. You should leave now.
She stared at the punk facedown on the pavement, then shifted her gaze to Jenkins. Her eyes momentarily cleared.
Fear.
“Chto vy nadelali?” she said. What have you done?
7
Yakimanka Bar
Moscow, Russia
When married, Senior Investigator Arkhip Mishkin of Moscow loved everything about being a criminal investigator except nights he was called out to a crime scene and had to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed and his wife, Lada. Her parents named their daughter after the Slavic goddess of beauty, and for thirty-six years Lada had been Arkhip’s treasure. Since her death from breast cancer almost two years ago, Arkhip found little joy in life, but he no longer minded being called out to a crime scene in the middle of the night. His bed was cold. Most nights he fell asleep in his chair reading.
Getting called out was something to do.
Arkhip slowed his car as he approached a uniformed officer directing traffic, though few cars drove the streets at this hour. He checked his watch. Morning, actually. The officer vigorously waved at Arkhip to drive away. Instead, Arkhip lowered the car-door window.