Free A Spring Betrayal by Tom Callaghan Page B

in there, darling, not if you’re looking for a man. He’s right here in front of you,” he said, patting his crotch just in case Saltanat might have misunderstood him.
    Saltanat smiled, walked up to him, pouted, blew a kiss, then kicked him in the balls. As he dropped to his knees, eyes bulging, gasping with shock and pain, she stepped around him and pushed at the steel door. The unlit stairs down to the basement bar looked horribly like a mouth, ready to devour us, and I remembered that there was no other way in. Or out.
    I looked down at the doorman, wondering why he looked familiar, then I placed him.
    “Your name Lubashov?” I asked.
    He looked up at me, wiping a string of vomit from his mouth.
    “What’s it to you?” he snarled.
    I pulled back my jacket to show I wasn’t in the mood for any shit.
    “Your brother?” I said. “Who used to work here? Who got a free ride to the cemetery? Any more tough-guy nonsense from you and you’ll be joining him.”
    I raised my hands to show that I wasn’t reaching for my gun, then stuck a finger in his face.
    “We’re cool, right? It ends here.”
    The doorman simply grunted, turned away to be sick again. Unimpressed by my bravado, Saltanat gestured at the doorway.
    “After you.”
    “No, no. Ladies first.”
    “And what makes you think I’m a lady?” she replied.
    I pointed at the doorman, wiping away the vomit on his jacket and almost succeeding.
    “You’re not as far as he’s concerned, that’s for sure,” I said, and stepped inside.
    The Kulturny might have acquired a new doorman, but otherwise the place remained depressingly unchanged. The dark stairwell leading down to a barely lit hovel. Half the lightbulbs either burned out or simply missing. Two prostitutes in a corner sucking on cigarettes with far more enthusiasm than they ever did for their clients. Boris, the barman, checking the glasses to make sure they were still dirty, and topping up the bottles labeled Stolichnaya with rotgut samogon . And of course, the overlying reek of piss, pivo , and pelmeni that gave the place its unique charm.
    Saltanat looked around with her usual impassive glare, pointed to an overweight and balding man leaning against the bar.
    “Your squealer?” I asked.
    She nodded, and walked slowly toward him. The distance hadn’t given him enchantment, and it got worse as we drew closer. Beads of greasy sweat trickled down his forehead and over his acne-raddled cheeks. It wasn’t warm in the Kulturny—heating costs money and that means less profit—so I guessed he was dripping with fear. He had a thin, mean mouth, like a newly opened scar, and dark eyes that never stopped dancing around in case of trouble. He wore one of those threadbare cheap suits you find in the bazaar, the sort that look shapeless and worn from the moment you put them on, stretched shiny and tight across his shoulders. His bald patch was highlighted by the way his remaining hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail. I’ve encountered a lot of lowlifes wearing ponytails, and there’s an asshole underneath every one.
    I was willing to bet every som in my wallet he’d ask for money before he’d talk. I was equally certain Saltanat would beat any information out of him before a single bill changed hands.
    “Kamchybek?” Saltanat asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.
    The man nodded, took a long pull at the glass in front of him. A half-empty bottle of Vostok vodka announced it wasn’t his first drink. Rocket fuel to dampen down the fear, anesthetize the nerves. The way his hands shook, I was surprised he managed to drink without adding to the collection of stains on his lapels.
    “Who’s this?” Kamchybek asked, his voice a surprisingly high falsetto in such a big man.
    “He’s with me,” Saltanat replied, not answering the question. Finding out I was Murder Squad and on the run wouldn’t inspire him with confidence, I knew that. So I kept my mouth shut and my jacket closed to keep the