“I don’t know anyone with those names,” Abbi said, looking at the nearby customers who were listening to the conversation.
“You knew them this morning,” Karpo said. “If they are here, point them out. If you will not, we will close this place.”
“They,” Abbi said, nodding at the crowd, “would tear you apart.”
“That is not your concern,” said Karpo.
“What is happening here?” asked a man of about forty who came up behind the bar. He was short with a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a gray pullover shirt with short sleeves. Inscribed on the left side of the shirt were the words Top Sail in English.
“We are looking for two people who call themselves Bottle Kaps and Heinrich,” said Karpo.
“Why?” shouted the man. “I’m Yevgeny Trotskov, the manager.”
“They were seen leaving here two nights ago with Misha Lovski,” Karpo said.
“Naked Cossack,” Zelach supplied.
“Naked Cossack? I don’t think he was here two nights ago,” Trotskov said, shaking his head.
The music suddenly stopped. The crowd shouted. The lead singer, Snub Nose Bullet, gave the crowd the finger and bit his lower lip. He was thin and bare-chested and had the chiseled face and nose of a Romanian. The crowd loved it. They shouted obscenities back at him and laughed and applauded and banged their bottles and glasses against tables and the bar.
“He was here,” said Karpo. “Point out Bottle Kaps and Heinrich.”
“They said they’d close us down,” said Abbi.
Trotskov smiled knowingly. “We can discuss this in my office,” he said, reaching out for Karpo’s arm. Karpo did not move. He met Trotskov’s eyes, and the bearded owner of Loni’s knew that this man was not interested in a bribe.
“They will kill you,” Trotskov said, his eyes scanning the crowd.
“I told them,” Abbi said.
“Zelach,” said Karpo. “Go to the door. Fire four shots into the ceiling. If anyone attacks you, shoot them.”
“You’re-” Trotskov started, but he could see that the Vampire before him was not bluffing.
“If one of us is hurt or anyone has to be shot,” said Karpo, “Loni’s will cease to exist.”
The madman is prepared to die, Trotskov thought. He looked at the other policeman, the unkempt one with the glasses who did not seem to be as interested in dying as his partner.
“Listen,” Trotskov said, turning to. Zelach.
“To the door,” said Karpo. “Fire.”
Zelach blinked and turned to head for the door, prepared though not pleased at the prospect of dying in this place or, for that matter, in any place.
“Wait,” said Trotskov. “Wait. They’re over there. Table near the stage.”
There were four people at the table. None of them were looking their way.
“Bottle Kaps has a red heart with á knife through it tattooed on his left arm. Heinrich is the big one with the swastika on his chest. Don’t tell them I pointed them out. Please.”
Karpo started for the table, a temporarily relieved Zelach at his side. Zelach had long ago learned that the man with whom he was working seemed to be without fear. He did not appear to value his life. Zelach, however, valued his very much, though he often thought himself nearly worthless. Luck had put him where he was in the Office of Special Investigation. At times like this he thought it had been bad rather than good luck.
Karpo moved to the table with Zelach at his side and looked directly at the one with the red heart with a knife through it tattooed on his arm.
“You are known as Bottle Kaps,” Karpo said.
All four young men at the table looked up. All four were skinheads. All four were drinking beer and smiling.
Bottle Kaps looked away from Karpo, ignoring him, and continued saying to Heinrich at his side, “So, I tell the little ant that if he does not return it I will crush his head with my boots.”
People at nearby tables had stopped talking to watch how the confrontation was going to play out.
Karpo said, “We have some questions to ask you.”
The four at the table ignored the gaunt policeman and kept talking.
Zelach looked around, moving his hand up his side in case he had to reach for his gun. They could, thought Zelach, simply go outside, wait till Bottle Kaps and Heinrich came out later. He did not really care if they had to wait half the night, given the alternative that Karpo was now pursuing.
Karpo took the table in two hands and flung it on its side against the two to whom he was talking. Glasses and bottles and ashtrays and keys flew. Heinrich fell to the floor. Bottle Kaps slid back on his chair. The other two at the table stood facing the detectives.
“I have questions,” Karpo said calmly. “It would be easier to sit quietly and talk than to come with us, but the choice is yours. Make it now.”
Bottle Kaps let out a grunt and pushed the fallen table out of his way. Zelach was sure he was going to charge at Karpo. Heinrich held out a hand to stop him.
“No riot,” he said. “You talk. We listen.”
Heinrich started to pick up the table. He needed help from Bottle Kaps and both of the others who had been seated at the table.
There was a moment now when Zelach felt certain that someone would jump on his back, stab him in the neck, beat him with a chair. He wanted to turn and face the crowd behind him but he held firm, doing his best to pretend he felt as confident and unafraid as Karpo looked.
Death Times Four had missed the confrontation. They had gone through a door in the wall behind the stage. When they came out, looking angry as hell, they were greeted not by cheers but by a silence.
“Out of the grave,” Snub Nose Bullet screamed at them. “The sun is down. It’s night. The night is ours.”
Then his eyes met those of Karpo.
Snub Nose Bullet, whose real name was Casimir Rolvanoshki, had seen many people dressed like vampires, but he had the impression that he might be seeing a real one for the first time. That was what the silence was all about.
Hell, this one might be here to destroy them all for mocking the living dead. Snub Nose Bullet was ready. Vindication. He hit a chord and launched into a song he had written and rehearsed only that afternoon.
He wanted to give Karpo the finger, give death the finger, but the best Casimir behind his own mask could do was to give a less-than-powerful sneer before he started singing.
“We will sit here,” Karpo said above the music, moving the chairs of the two young men who had been sitting with Bottle Kaps and Heinrich.
Karpo had to have a plan. Zelach was certain of that now. He would not be constantly challenging these people if he were not confident, did not know exactly how they would react. Karpo knew more about the law than anyone in the Office of Special Investigation, perhaps even more than Inspector Rostnikov himself, and knowing the law at this point in Russian history was no small accomplishment. On a day-to-day basis, Zelach had no idea what the law might be on any crime. He trusted Karpo. He trusted the others. He had no choice.
Death Times Four howled and shouted. Snub Nose Bullet leaned toward Karpo and sang-shouted, “Swine in brown and swine in blue. They will step all over you.”
The four skinheads at the table remained standing, looking at Karpo, waiting for him to make a move.
“Shrapnel Spew,” Zelach muttered.
He had spoken softly but somehow the singer on the low stage leaning toward Karpo heard him and hesitated. The mess of a policeman with glasses, the sweating blob, was right. The line was from the Estonian group Shrapnel Spew. Casimir had not made it up this afternoon-not the song nor the words. He had simply remembered them, and there he stood doing something he had never done before. He was singing and playing someone else’s music. The song was obscure, but somehow this policeman had recognized it. Casimir was sure there was no one else in the room who had any idea of the disaster.