Free Red Ink by Greg Dinallo Page A

wallet. He eyes the few rubles with disdain. “What the fuck you think you’re paying back with this?”
    I doubt he’d be pleased to hear that I went along with the idea to manipulate him, or, assuming he can read, that I once wrote a story in support of washed-up athletes like him. No, I’m writing another story now and have no choice but to play it out. “I don’t have the money on me. I wasn’t sure I’d find him. I didn’t want to chance carrying it.”
    He snorts derisively. “Get him out of here.” He throws the rubles on the floor and stalks off with my wallet in the direction of the phone.
    The thugs jerk me from the stool then, all in one motion, hustle me to the door, and gleefully shove me into the street.
    My arms break the fall, but the ice-cold cobblestones are ungiving. I lie there for a moment reevaluating my position on discarded athletes, then head for the Metro station on Kropot-kinskaya. It’s the Kirov-Frunze line. Not the Zhdanov-Krasny. Not mine. But I’ve had all the electroshock therapy I can stand for one night and want out of the Arbat as fast as possible. Itake the train north to Lubyanka Square station, until recently Dzerzhinsky Square, site of KGB Headquarters. Several Metro lines interconnect here. The arched colonnades, ornate chandeliers, and prerevolutionary murals go by in a blur as I dash between trains, then settle down for the long haul to Lyublino.
    The evening was a total loss. Worse than total. I have less now than when I started: no Marlboros, no wallet, no ID, no money, and no information on black-market medal dealers.
    The train lurches. The lights dim briefly. I stiffen, eyeing my fellow passengers with suspicion. A leather jacket on one. Running shoes on another. Sunglasses on a third. Ordinary citizens? Low-level gangsters? Weary workers? I hate to admit it, but Shevchenko was right. Moscow has traded one set of tyrants for another. We used to live in fear of being victimized by the police, now we fear being victimized by criminals. Victimized by ourselves.

8
    I t’s almost midnight when the train pulls into Lyublino Station. Nearly an hour and a half after I kissed the pavement outside Kafé Skazka. Vera’s shift ends soon. I’m counting on her to tend to my bruised ego, aching muscles, and zero bank balance, not necessarily in that order.
    Gusts of Arctic wind disperse the smog in wispy layers as I walk to my apartment. The streets are empty except for a few scavenging cats and a tradesman’s van, its dim headlights glowing like balls of yellow cotton. I’m at the corner when I notice a sedan emerging from a darkened side street.
    Reflections of refinery lights in the waxed finish catch my eye. Reflections? Moving across sleek forest green lacquer? In Lyublino? Not a chance. Sooty, dull, unpolished wrecks are the rule here; and most residents can’t afford one, not even a broken-down razvalina, let alone a spanking new konfekta like a Volvo.
    I quicken my pace, crossing to the other side of the street, when it dawns on me. A Volvo?! Volvos are favored by Moscow’s midlevel gangsters. I break into a run. The sedan accelerates and cuts me off. For an instant, I’m eyeball to eyeball with the driver. It’s him! Ray-Ban. Still wearing his designer shades.
    “Katkov?!” he calls out as the car dives to a rubber-burning stop. “Katkov, wait!”

    Why? To get my ass kicked?! I sprint toward the intersection. The two thugs from Kafé Skazka pile out of the car and pursue. I turn into a street lined with boarded-up houses and shuttered storefronts. An alley flashes past. I reverse direction and duck into it before the thugs turn the corner. Barely a meter separates the soaring brick. The alley is so narrow and dark I almost missed it. Maybe they will.
    I had no intention of threatening them, but I’ve obviously hit a nerve. Why the sudden paranoia? Do they know Barkhin? Is this a rival mob? Did they get into a turf war with Barkhin’s people and muscle them