Gray Blocks and Black Blocks had long been enemy kingdoms for the young who lived in them. Each kingdom had its own army of the nearly illiterate, who battled each other, stole from each other, and even, on rare occasions, maimed and murdered each other. There was more fulfillment in that than there was in the world beyond the Outer Ring Highway.
Then, five years ago, a leader emerged from Gray Blocks, an unlikely leader, Anatoli Xeromen, who lived with his mother in one of the dark boxes within the concrete block. Anatoli was short and thin, his nose sharp and Romanian, his hair straight and of no distinct color, a situation he had remedied by dyeing it purple. Anatoli feared nothing and no one. Anatoli did not care whether he lived or died. And Anatoli was smart.
He had risen to leadership in Gray Blocks by his fearlessness and the fear of others, who wanted no block of concrete to fall on them when they least expected it. He had then united the two crumbling, dirty kingdoms with promises of revenge against the city of Moscow, promises of plunder and power.
The Capones had ridden into Moscow to terrorize Metro passengers, pedestrians, and storekeepers. Their numbers increased, and Anatoli became a force in stolen goods and intimidation throughout the city. He had his own car, his own bodyguards, and the respect of petty criminals who wanted nothing to do with the Capones and their crazed leader who insisted that every member have a weapon of his or her choice tattooed on the sole of his or her foot. Betrayal of Anatoli or the Capones by any member was punishable by forfeiture of the leg on which the tattoo appeared.
Anatoli’s mother, a firm believer in God, told all who would listen that she had been blessed with a son whom God had anointed for greatness. No one dared to contradict her.
Anatoli and the Capones did not hide. Visibility and fear were their commodities. Everyone knew the mark of the Capones, their punk English look, their hair. But now there was one who did not respect the Capones-Tahpor, the Ax, who had mutilated Yellow Angel and now spread fear among them. Anatoli already sensed a threat to his dynasty-that there might be an individual even more daring and dangerous than Anatoli Xeromen.
And then, too, he had liked Yellow Angel.
“You and Gino,” he said to the young man with the red Mohawk, “go to the police. Ask for her. Say we want the body.”
“What if they …?” the young man said.
“They know she was one of us,” said Anatoli. “The tattoo. Unless Tahpor … just do it. Ask for the one they call the Washtub.”
The young man with the red hair could think of many reasons why he should not go to the police, but he voiced none of them. Anatoli had given him the name Speechkee, “Matches.” His real name was Lev Zelinsky. He was seventeen years old and a Jew. Anatoli cared nothing about the backgrounds of the Capones. All he asked was loyalty, and in return for this he shared what they all extorted, bartered, and stole.
So instead of coming up with a reason to stay away from the police, Speechkee said, “In the morning.”
Anatoli nodded and the young man with the red Mohawk hurried away.
Anatoli rose and looked at the poster of Gene Tierney. The poster was black-and-white, a reprint. He was sure that the eyes must really be gray. He was fascinated by this woman with the hint of a knowing smile. She must surely be dead by now, as dead as Yellow Angel. Gene Tierney smiled at him and kept her secret.
Tomorrow Anatoli would tell the Capones that they would have to find and punish Tahpor. There was no choice. Unless they found the killer of Yellow Angel, Anatoli’s power over the gang would be undermined. Besides, he truly wanted to kill whoever had done this to Yellow Angel. He wanted to batter the killer’s face with the heel of his boots.
Anatoli looked once more at Gene Tierney. It was late, and he had promised his mother he would come up to the apartment by midnight and have a hot chocolate with her. Anatoli left the war room.
Sasha Tkach carefully opened the door to his apartment. Since there were two locks now, entering quietly had become a feat that defied success, but he tried his best.
Sasha, shoes in hand, had a series of hopes. He hoped his wife and children were asleep in the bedroom. He hoped his mother was asleep in the living room, which he had to cross to get to the kitchen alcove where there might be something he could eat without waking anyone. Then, if he got that far, he hoped he could undress, put on clean shorts and an undershirt, and watch something on the little television in the corner, preferably a soccer match since he would not be able to turn on the sound.
These, he believed, were not unreasonable hopes for a policeman who had just put in a fourteen-hour shift dealing with murder and bureaucracy. Murder had been far easier to cope with.
Sasha missed his former partner, Zelach, who had recently returned to limited desk work after almost being killed as a result of Sasha’s negligence. Karpo was reliable and professional, and he expected Tkach to be the same. Zelach was, putting it kindly, slow-witted, but with Zelach, there was no doubt that Sasha was in charge. His more recent partner, Elena Timofeyeva, was smart, efficient, ambitious, and, though he had more experience than she did, she was older than he and maddeningly confident.
When Elena was selected to accompany Porfiry Petrovich to Cuba, Sasha had been jealous. The prospect of private nights away from his family in a place where he heard there was still a reasonable supply of food was something to fight for, but the crucial issue had been a simple one. His French was nearly perfect, but Sasha spoke no Spanish.
So, at the moment, he was asking very little, as he closed the door to the living room, turned the locks without letting them click noisily, and made his way carefully across the room.
Before he had taken five steps he knew something was wrong. When he took the sixth, he knew what it was. His mother was not snoring. Her snoring had necessitated moving himself, Maya, and the children into the bedroom. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, she is dead, if she is, I’ll simply let her he there and discover the body in the morning.
“Sasha,” came his mother’s familiar loud voice.
Lydia was nearly deaf and far too proud to admit it.
In the bedroom beyond the door, Maya or one of the children stirred.
Sasha stood still.
“I see you there,” Lydia said. “What are you doing?”
Useless though it was, Sasha whispered loudly, “Shh, Mother. You’ll wake-”
“Turn on the light,” she ordered. As he obeyed he stepped on something hard.
Lydia was sitting up in bed ready for combat, her gray-black hair a wild nest, her small face pinched in the glare of sudden light.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
Another sound from the bedroom.
“No, Mother. Maya and the children are-”
“Then why are you limping?”
“I just stepped on-”
“There’s no point in lying. You’re working with that Karpo. He is mad.”
Lydia was convinced that each of her son’s colleagues had some dangerous deficiency that would result in the maiming or death of her only child. The result of this conviction was that she was almost always angry with her son. The irony of this was that Sasha was convinced that he was a constant danger to those who worked with him. It was Sasha whose passions had betrayed him and almost gotten Zelach killed. It was Sasha whose depression had gotten him into a terrible and unnecessary fight in a bar while he and Elena Timofeyeva were conducting an investigation. Elena had not been hurt, but Sasha had suffered both broken ribs and painful bruises.
“I’m well, Mother,” he said. “I just want to eat something and go to sleep. Let me turn out the light and-”
“What are you hiding?” Lydia asked suspiciously as the bedroom door opened. Sasha suddenly felt massively sorry for himself.