Free Red Chameleon by Stuart M. Kaminsky

the two heavy policemen ambled forward. The sad-faced younger man deferred to the slightly older man with the bad leg. Yuri was intrigued by the older man, but he showed nothing.
    â€œYou are Yuri Pashkov?” Zelach asked.
    â€œI am well aware of who I am,” the old man said, looking away at the fascinating spectacle of the factory.
    â€œWould you rather have this conversation at the police station?” Zelach said, stepping onto the porch. Yuri shrugged and looked up at the man.
    â€œYou want to carry me to police headquarters, carry me,” the old man said.
    â€œYour tongue will get you in trouble,” Zelach warned, falling back on the threats of his trade.
    â€œHa,” Yuri cackled. “I’m eighty-five years old. What have you to threaten me with? My family is gone. This shack is a piece of shit. Threaten. Go ahead. Threaten.”
    Rostnikov stepped up on the small porch into the slight shade from the wooden slats above.
    â€œWhat kind of factory have you here?” he said.
    â€œVests.”
    Rostnikov glanced at the old man in the chair. The lines on his face were amazingly deep and leathery.
    â€œVests?” Rostnikov asked, sensing the man’s favorite subject.
    â€œVests,” the old man said, pausing to spit into the dirt near Zelach, who stepped back. “We used to farm around here, and now they have us working in a factory, and what do we make in that factory?”
    â€œVests,” said Rostnikov.
    â€œExactly,” said Yuri, recognizing a kindred spirit. “What dignity is there in a man’s life when he has spent it sewing buttons on vests to be worn by Hungarians or Italians.”
    â€œNone,” Rostnikov agreed.
    â€œNone,” Yuri said. “And so they make vests without heart, spirit, need. You know what kind of vests they make?”
    â€œVests of poor quality,” Rostnikov guessed, glancing at Zelach, who clearly ached to shake the old rag of a man into a cooperation that would never come.
    â€œVests of paper, toilet paper, vests not fit to wipe one’s ass with,” the old man said with venom, spit forming on his mouth, eyes turned always toward the factory.
    â€œIt wasn’t always like this,” Rostnikov said softly.
    â€œThere were times,” the old man said.
    â€œLong ago,” Rostnikov agreed.
    â€œLong ago,” Yuri agreed.
    â€œI understand you remember a man named Abraham Savitskaya who was here a long time ago,” Rostnikov said, not looking at the man.
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    Zelach stepped forward, whipped the photograph from his pocket, and thrust it in front of the wrinkled face.
    â€œThat,” said Zelach, “is you. And that is Savitskaya.”
    â€œAnd you are Comrade Shit,” the old man said sweetly.
    â€œZelach,” Rostnikov said firmly before the sweating, weary policeman could crush the dry old man. “Walk back to the police station, arrange for a car to get us to the station in time to catch the next train.”
    Zelach’s face displayed a rush of thought: first the consideration of defiance and then its quick suppression, followed by petulance, and finally resignation.
    When Zelach had gone, Rostnikov leaned against the wall and said nothing.
    â€œWhat happened to your leg?”
    â€œBattle of Rostov,” Yuri said. “I still have poison gas in my lungs. I can taste it when I belch.”
    They watched the factory a while longer before the old man spoke again.
    â€œSome didn’t stay around to face the troubles, the Germans, the Revolution.”
    â€œSome?” Rostnikov tried gently.
    â€œSavitskaya,” he said. “Savitskaya and Mikhail.”
    â€œMikhail?”
    â€œMikhail Posniky,” the old man said. “After the first Revolution, they fled.”
    â€œMikhail Posniky is the third man in the photograph?”
    Yuri shrugged, the closest he would come to cooperation.
    â€œWhat