The last time they tried it, it was cold outside, and Eddie-baby was in a hurry. His hands were freezing, and he probably (if not certainly) stamped the numbers upside down on one of the receipts, something that a cash register wouldn't do, the typeface being so firmly fixed in it that there's no goddamn way you could turn it upside down…
The clerk, a fat old woman in glasses, had already stuck the receipt on a special steel spindle behind the counter when – Eddie-baby sensed this more than saw it – her gaze suddenly fell on the receipt and she said in an unusually tender voice,
"Oops, I'm all out of liqueur. Sorry, lad. I'll get some more from the storeroom." She then set off in the direction of the cash register, which was about twenty-five meters away. As she left, she removed the receipt from the spindle with an almost imperceptible gesture, but Eddie, whose nerves were naturally already tense, noticed the light, almost flylike motion of her hand, and after waiting several seconds until the clerk was momentarily concealed behind a column (the store resembled a many-columned palace), he dashed for the door, knocking people and boxes over along the way. The other kids ran out with him.
They all got away and joined up in a square located half a kilometer from the scene of the crime. It turned out that all of them had kept the bottles they had acquired, and everybody except Eddie-baby had acquired something, so that everything ended happily. They even had two large cakes, although the cakes had gotten a bit squashed during their flight.
It was clear, however, that they had to put an end to the swindle with the receipts. And Eddie-baby didn't try it at other stores as he had been planning to do. In the first place, the counterfeiting of receipts didn't bring in any money – just groceries and drinks – and in the second, the kids had told him that the now alerted trashes would probably start keeping track of cash receipt transactions, so that it would be dangerous to go on with it…
"Even if it wasn't dangerous, an operation like that would still take several days," Eddie thinks bitterly. In any event, Plotnikov and his crowd had asked for money, so it would be silly to turn up there in a bow tie with Svetka decked out in her crinolines on one arm and string bags loaded down with bottles on the other. "There isn't even any point in considering it;" Eddie thinks, "since it's impossible to get the bottles anyway."
18
Eddie wants to leave, but according to the petit bourgeois rules of proletarian Saltovka, he has to stay at Vovka's for at least another half-hour "for the sake of decency." So Vovka won't be offended.
It seems to Eddie that Vovka wouldn't be offended, that it's a matter of complete indifference to him. But maybe Eddie's wrong about that. At least Vovka's face looks languidly indifferent. And gray. His soft, thin auburn hair falls from either side of his useless part. Not the kind of part that Eddie-baby has, but a careless one that has formed of its own accord. Vovka's lips are pinkish and chapped – unpleasant lips. It's no coincidence that Borka Churilov can't stand him. Borka says Vovka is a bad influence on the kids, that he's a sluggard and a shit and will someday find himself in prison for sleeping with underaged girls and being a lecher. According to Borka, Vovka gets the girls drunk and then rapes them, and if they don't submit to him, he punches them in the liver so they lose their strength for a few minutes, during which Vovka manages to take his victims' pants off and start fucking them.
Once Borka even threatened to punch Zolotarev's face in if he didn't stop corrupting Vitka Golovashov, who could become a very good wrestler if he didn't drink. Vitka often drops in on Vovka and gets drunk with him.
Vovka, for his part, hates Borka and calls him a jerkoff, and he means it literally: he suspects Borka of onanism. He calls him a sectarian too. Obviously, he doesn't call him that to his face, since Borka's iron physique leaves no doubt about his ability to make Zolotarev a cripple for the rest of his life, even though Borka Churilov's basically a peaceful individual.
The doorbell announces the arrival of a guest or guests.
"Who's there?" Vovka asks into the phone after flopping down on his bed.
"It's Olga!" the phone crackles. "And Mushka's with me."
Vovka doesn't ask Olga and Mushka about a bottle. "Press the button," he says. A few moments later the two girls tumble in through the door. Eddie has seen Mushka more than once and has heard about her even more, although they've never actually met. And who hasn't heard about her! Mushka's the whore of the Saltovkan chronicles. All the Ivanovka kids, including fat Vitka Fomenko – yes, even Vitka – have gang-fucked her several times, that is, fucked her by turns after waiting in line. All you have to do to achieve that right, the kids say, is pour a half-liter of vodka into Mushka, and then she'll happily take her clothes off and spread her legs all by herself. Her companion, Olga, is a big girl, taller than Eddie, and from his school, although she's a year ahead of him. Olga has a sad white face, and the kids think she's beautiful, but Eddie doesn't.
Mushka's wearing a man's cap, and her hair, bleached with peroxide to a sandy yellow color, sticks out from underneath it. She's also wearing a woolen overcoat that nearly reaches the floor, probably a man's too. On her feet are "spikes" with metal heels. Mushka's high heels are worn over white socks that cover her ankles. Otherwise her legs are bare, in spite of the fact that it's November. Mushka has a rather sweet little mug, in Eddie's view, although sweet as it is, it's still the face of a whore. Under her coat, Mushka has on a strapless black velvet dress. The dress is girded at the waist with a white plastic belt, and around her neck Mushka is wearing white beads. "She obviously dressed in the black-and-white style on purpose," Eddie thinks, "only it looks ridiculous."
"Hey, old buddies!" exclaims the free and easy Mushka.
The gallant Grishka has long since risen to his feet and is hovering around the girls.
"You know perfectly well, Mushka, that I've been an admirer of yours for a long time!" says the gallant Grishka in the hoarse voice of a degenerate, using the formal pronoun. Probably the same way his uncle, the ex-prime minister of Saburka, addresses women. It's clear that Grishka is taken with Mushka.
Eddie suddenly realizes that he has been giving all his attention to the whore Mushka and has hardly noticed the sullen and beautiful Olga, who is draped in a dark green woolen dress. "Probably because Mushka's cheerful," Eddie thinks.
Mushka finally takes off her man's cap, and her bleach-blond bangs fall down over her forehead. Vovka, who has disappeared into the kitchen, reappears with a fresh bottle of vodka, and instead of a plate, a whole plastic tray covered with snacks.
"It's pretty certain Vovka ripped that tray off from the militia cafeteria," Eddie notes in passing. He also manages to observe that Vovka has changed his footwear, replacing his slippers with heeled black shoes.
"I just mobilized my mother; she'll make us some hot snacks. In the meantime we'll start out with what's on hand," announces the visibly more animated Vovka. Very much more animated. What's happened to his drowsiness and lethargy? Vovka once again fills up the glasses with vodka, this time not with his previous shocking indifference but with the smile of a generous host taking pleasure in his guests.