Free Red Ink by Greg Dinallo

evening’s tenth glass of mineral water.
    The bartender, a rotund fellow with a face veined like a road map, fills a mug with Borzhomi and slides it in my direction. “Get you anything else?”
    I slip a pack of Marlboros from my pocket and place it on the bar. “Some information.”
    His eyes dart longingly to the cigarettes, then harden with suspicion. “See that?” He points to the disclaimer that warns smoking can be hazardous to your health. “It goes double for guys like you.”
    “I’m not looking for trouble. Just a friend.”
    “There are a lot of cafés in Moscow, pal.”
    “Yeah, well, I’m hitting all his old haunts.”
    The bartender shrugs and wipes up a spill with a damp cloth, imparting a momentary luster to the marble.
    “The last time we were in here,” I resume, as he works his way down the bar, “my friend sold the owner on the benefits of paying for protection.”

    That gets his attention. Ditto for the desultory characters in the far corner. The sound of eyeballs clicking and necks snapping is followed by the rumble of chair legs and squeak of athletic shoes.
    I’m not surprised. Neither is the bartender. He hurries off to clear a distant table as the pitted mirror behind him darkens with swaggering men.
    A wall of leather closes around me. A gloved hand beats mine to the Marlboros. I turn on the barstool and find myself staring at the words ELECTRO SHOCK THERAPY. The name of the popular heavy metal band is printed on a skin-tight T-shirt that clings to the thug’s chest. Neo-Nazi stubble covers his head. Sunglasses bridge a broken nose. Hooked and scarred rather than flattened, it’s clearly from battles fought on ice, not canvas.
    “You’re looking for a friend in the protection racket?” the thug demands, pushing his face to mine. The sunglasses are so close I can see the designer logo on the lens reads Ray-Ban.
    “Uh-huh. Haven’t seen him in years.”
    “You know who he worked for?”
    “Nobody. He was putting together his own operation. His name’s Barkhin. Arkady Barkhin.”
    “Never heard of him,” he says impassively, though his eyes could be wide with recognition behind those Ray-Bans. “Any of you?”
    As I expected, the knuckle-draggers flanking him grunt “Nyet,” in unison.
    “Well, thanks anyway. No harm in asking.” I force a smile, chalk up the Marlboros to the cost of doing business, and turn back toward the bar.
    “Don’t count on it,” Ray-Ban threatens, spinning me around to face him.
    My gut flutters and begins to tighten. “Pardon me? Have I missed something here?”
    “Yeah, asshole, like the whole point.”
    “Which is?”
    “Friends always know where to find you. Enemies have to ask.”
    “Look, Barkhin and I lost touch.”
    “Bullshit.” He removes the cellophane wrapper from the cigaretteswith an angry flick of his wrist. “You owe him money or something. Right?”
    I’m getting the feeling he knows more about Arkady Barkhin than he’s telling and am tempted to explain, but think better of it. If owing Barkhin money is what’s on this thug’s mind, I might as well go with it. “Yeah, matter of fact I do. I’m looking for him so I can settle my account.”
    “Shame.” He pushes a Marlboro into the corner of his mouth and lights it. “I earn a living off people who welsh on debts.”
    “Nothing personal. I take mine seriously.”
    “Good. So do we. Come on, let’s have it,” he demands, motioning with his hand.
    “Have what?”
    “The cash. I’ll make sure your friend gets it.”
    Damn. I should’ve seen that coming. There’s no getting away with a white lie in this game. “But you said you didn’t know him.”
    “I don’t,” he cackles, drawing raucous laughter from his colleagues. “But my time’s worth a lot more than a fucking pack of Marlboros.” He pockets the cigarettes and signals the others with a nod. Hands grip my arms like vises and pin me to the bar. Ray-Ban goes through my pockets and takes my