This, Sasha thought as the water went from cool to cold, was not the first time he had been away from Maya and the baby. In the past, there had always been the sense of temporary respite, primarily from Sasha's mother, Lydia, who had lived with them until just a month ago. Lydia had been the guilt and burden of his life.
Now Sasha and Maya and their daughter, Pulcharia, who was almost two, had their own apartment, and there was a new baby on the way. Times were uncertain, and there were
those who still thought that a second child was foolish. Perhaps, he thought, they were right. In any case, he wanted to be home. He was thirty years old, no longer a boy, and he wanted to be home.
He scrubbed himself angrily. Rostnikov and Karpo were both on vacation, but he, he had to not only remain on duty but to stay away from his wife. The image of the woman, Tamara, in the lobby suddenly came to him, and in spite of the cool water, he found himself growing erect, which made him even angrier. He turned the metal handle all the way, but the water grew no colder nor the spray more powerful.
Think of the work, he told himself, scrubbing with the rough bar of soap he had brought with him from his and Maya's apartment. He forced himself to think about the other decoys in the field. He did not know how many there might be, but the Wolfhound had said there were others, others from different MVD branches, others with backup officers like Zelach.
There had been thirty reports of computer theft-breaking and entering apartments where people were known to have computers. Always apartments, never homes, always single men or women. And almost always Jews or people with names that might be considered Jewish. In seven cases, the break-ins had taken place while the computer owner was home. In all seven cases, the owner was beaten, beaten brutally. In not one case had a witness other than the victim been found who heard or saw anything in spite of the obvious noise. In none of the seven cases in which the victim had been present had any of them been willing to give a clear description of their assailants, for there was no way the police could protect them from retribution and all of them had been threatened with such retribution before they were beaten.
And so Sasha had been given a crash course in the computer, not enough to make him an expert but enough for him to do the work at the ministry, which he had done for almost two weeks, two weeks in which he had not seen his family, had only spoken to Maya three times by telephone, had only heard Pulcharia's voice once, saying, "At'e'ts. Father." Unbidden, he thought of Tamara again and grew even angrier. He shaved with the overused razor he had been using for a week and began to sing resolutely. Perhaps he would use his time to really master the computer. Perhaps he would ask to leave the MVD. There was probably no future in working for the Wolfhound. When Rostnikov had been demoted, Sasha had joined him because he wanted to continue to work with Rostnikov, but he also knew that in the end he had no choice. He was one of Rostnikov's men.
Sasha nicked his cheek. He sensed blood but ignored it, though he could not ignore the truth. He would not quit. It made little sense. Maya had said that it was because Sasha had never known his father that Rostnikov had become a father figure. Maybe, Sasha admitted, it was something like that.
He put the razor down on the little metal rack hanging from the shower head and rinsed off, being careful to place the precious bar of soap carefully back in the rack, where it would not be worn away by the shower water. A trickle of blood from his cheek joined the water going down the drain. He stopped singing abruptly and watched it dreamily. His hand reached up and turned off the water, but Sasha did not move. There was a mirror outside the shower, but he did not want to look. He touched the washcloth to his cut and tried to awaken from the trance.
When he pushed back the curtain, Zelach was standing there with a look of concern on his face.
"Are you all right?"
In fact, Zelach was the superior officer. In practice, they both knew that Sasha was in charge. Zelach had seen other policemen go into a zombie mode. It was usually the smart ones, the sensitive ones, like Sasha. When it happened, these officers were sent on vacations, from which some of them returned, while others went on to become clerks or bartenders.
"I'm fine," said Tkach, reaching for the towel on a hook outside the door.
"You're bleeding," said Zelach.
"I know," Sasha said, stepping out. "I'm fine. Go back in front of the door. I 'm fine.''
Zelach turned reluctantly and obeyed.
Sasha dried himself slowly and then wiped the moisture-covered mirror and looked at himself. On the surface it was an innocent, youthful face with a spot of blood on the left cheek. It was not a Jewish face, but many Jews he knew, including Rostnikov's wife, did not have faces that were particularly Jewish looking. He reached for the glasses and put them on. Even then he did not look Jewish, though he did look like a sloo 'zhashchee, an office worker, a bureaucrat. The thought depressed him. He dressed quickly, determined to go out and find a phone so that he could talk to Maya and hear Pulcharia's voice before her bedtime.
Yakov Krivonos looked down at Carla's body. Her red hair spread out, framing her face, and the blood dripping from her nostrils mingled with it. He would write a song about this moment, even though the dull streetlight robbed the scene of its true color.
It suddenly seemed very important that he remember Carla's last name. She had told him once. It was something like No 'veey got, New Year. No, no, it wasn't.
She was certainly dead, and since he had thrown her out the window, the least he could do was remember her last name. Looking down at her did nothing to help him. Someone behind him on the compact disc player shouted with joy. A breeze sucked in through the shattered window, trying to push Yakov gently back. He considered, seriously considered, leaping from the window ledge. He was almost certain he could fly, well, not quite fly, but keep himself suspended by will, moving slowly down. Yes, he could do it. He seemed to remember having done it before. He stepped onto the ledge.
Then he saw the face of death look up at him, and he hesitated. There, floating white below him, moving forward across the street, eyes fixed on him, the face floated in a sea of black. Perhaps if he jumped death would catch him.
He looked around for Jerold, almost called for him to come and see the face of death, but Jerold had dropped Carla and gone home. Yakov looked down again, and death was no longer there.
What had Carla done? It had only been seconds ago, and yet he couldn't remember what had caused him to push her through the window. It had something to do with … Yes, she had called him a name, but what name? What difference did it make?
Far away he heard the sound of a police siren. Amazing. Could they be coming this way already? Where had this sudden efficiency come from? Reluctantly, Yakov Krivonos stepped back from the window and looked around the^room. It would be better to leave. He did not want to die before he saw Las Vegas, but what should he take with him?
He stepped over to the table and scooped most of the remaining capsules Jerold had left him into his palm and then plunged the handful into his pocket. He repeated this twice. The money on the table he folded over and stuffed in his rear pocket. His two-handled blue canvas bag with "Miami" emblazoned on it lay on the bed. He walked slowly to it, scooped it up, and moved to the CD player.
Yakov began dropping the CDs into the bag. Music continued as he worked. It was, he thought, like a scene from Miami Vice. He had three videotapes of Miami Vice.
Jerold had watched with him, telling Yakov what was happening. Yakov loved the dealers, the wild dealers, who took, killed, laughed. They were alive. The police on those shows were bores who triumphed not because they were better but because it was time to end each episode.