“My twelve-year-old daughter can make a better corner kick than that,” Oleg Kisolev shouted.
Kisolev was a compact man wearing a gray sweatshirt and gray shorts. Kisolev had powerful legs and thighs and a look on his flat face, dominated by an often-broken nose, that suggested he was not a particularly brilliant human specimen. It was an unfair conclusion, only partially supported by the conversation that was taking place.
“Scheplev,” Kisolev shouted. “Go on the other field and kick one hundred corner kicks. Pushnik, go with him in the goal.”
The other players paid little attention when Scheplev and Pushnik walked off toward the other field. Two other players sitting on the sideline put on blue shirts and replaced the departing players.
“Play,” shouted Kisolev, blowing his whistle.
The red-shirted team took the ball downfield.
Iosef Rostnikov and Akardy Zelach had introduced themselves and stood watching and waiting while Kisolev ignored them.
“Coach Kisolev,” Iosef said gently to the coach, who was concentrating on the weaknesses of his players.
“Menchelev,” he shouted in exasperation, “you’re too far upfield.
Their line will run right past you. Back up.” Kisolev shook his head. “Menchelev is a great fullback, but he thinks he can run like a track star. I-”
“We must talk to you now,” said Iosef.
Kisolev motioned Menchelev back even farther. Iosef reached over and grabbed the whistle Kisolev was about to blow. The whistle was on a cord around the coach’s neck. Iosef tugged at the whistle and Kisolev turned.
“What the hell you think you’re doing, you son-of-a-bitch bastard?” said Kisolev, pulling the whistle from Iosef ’s hand. Red faced, he clenched his fists and looked into Iosef ’s eyes.
Iosef smiled and said, “I suggest you smile and we talk, or you might well be spending a few days in a local police lockup. Do you know what they are like? No? Well, you don’t want to know.”
Kisolev looked at Zelach, who had no expression on his face, though his left eye seemed to be slightly glazed over.
“I have important friends,” said Kisolev.
“You have one important friend,” said Iosef. “And we’re looking for him. Yevgeny Pleshkov.”
Kisolev turned to the field, blew his whistle, and shouted,
“Break. Get some vahdi, water. Don’t leave the area.”
“Thank you,” said Iosef.
“If you weren’t a policeman, I’d. .”
“After we talk,” Iosef said, “I’ll be happy to go behind the stands and give you the opportunity.”
Kisolev looked at the young man, who was only slightly taller than he, and saw a new smile that made it quite clear that the good-looking policeman was not only unafraid but actually welcomed a chance at him. Kisolev caved.
“What do you want?”
“Yevgeny Pleshkov.”
“I don’t know where he is if not at home. He might be at his dacha.”
“He is neither there nor at his apartment in the city,” said Iosef.
“Then I can be of no help to you,” said Kisolev.
Zelach had wandered over to a cluster of four soccer balls a few feet away and had begun dribbling while Iosef and the coach continued to talk.
“Think. Where might we find him? Where might he be? Where does he go?”
“Who knows?” said Kisolev with a shrug and a scratching of his head of ample dark hair.
“You know,” said Iosef. “Where does he go when he drinks?
How do we locate Yulia Yalutsak?”
“Yalutshkin,” Kisolev corrected.
“And where might we find her? It would be in your best interest for us to find him. He needs to be found soon.”
Kisolev looked down in thought and then said, “Why soon?”
“His political presence is needed,” said Iosef. “An important vote is coming up in the congress and he is needed for that and the debate that precedes it. His future may depend upon appearing, taking positions, and voting on several crucial issues.”
“Yevgeny, Yevgeny,” Kisolev said, sighing as he looked across the soccer field at his players who were lounging on the grass. “I love Yevgeny and we have been friends since we were children and I take great pride in that friendship, but no one can stop these. . these benders. These lost weekends.”
“Can you help us find him?” asked Iosef, trying not to sound impatient.
“He hasn’t come to me,” said Kisolev, “but I can tell you where to find Yulia Yalutshkin. Almost every night at the Casino Royal.
When he is like this, you are right, he goes to her. I don’t like her.
I’ve told Yevgeny to stay away from her. She’s a whore. She gets picked up by Chinese, Mafia, sometimes Americans and Germans, mostly Germans. She probably has diseases.”
“The Casino Royal,” Iosef repeated patiently.
“Yes, a gambling palace now, but it was once a real palace where the czar stayed when he went to the horse races. I’m not a royalist.
I’m not a Communist and I don’t like this new democracy and I don’t care if you know it. There were times and there are places that are part of our history.”
“History changes,” said Iosef.
Kisolev shook his head and looked at his whistle for an answer.
“History changes,” he agreed. “Don’t go to the Royal before midnight. She won’t be there.”
“Thanks,” said Iosef.
“As I said, Yevgeny is my friend. I don’t have many friends. I’m a tyrant as a coach and it carries over into my private life. I get paid to win. It is simple. To win I must be a tyrant. Tyrants have few friends and-”
The solid impact of a shoe against a soccer ball made both men turn and look at Zelach, whose left foot was still out following his kick. The ball was sailing high into the air and across the width of the field. It came down in the arms of one of the lounging players. The players looked across at Zelach and applauded.
“Can you kick like that often?” asked Kisolev.
Zelach nodded.
“Can you corner kick?”
Zelach shrugged and looked at Iosef, who shrugged back.
“Take a ball,” said Kisolev. “Go. . you prefer the right or left?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Zelach.
“You kick like that with either foot?” asked Kisolev.
“Yes,” said Zelach, looking across at the players sitting on the grass.
“Please, go take a corner kick.”
“It’s all right,” said Iosef, interested by this unforeseen side of the man known derisively at Petrovka as “the Slouch.”
Zelach dribbled a ball slowly to the nearest corner of the field and placed the ball in the small chalked-in space for the corner kick. He stepped back five or six paces and took three long strides to the ball. He kicked the ball, which went soaring up in the air about twenty feet from the ground and came down about five yards in front of the goal. Again the lounging players applauded.
“Who do you play for?” asked Kisolev.
“No one,” said Zelach. “I’m a police officer.”
“I know that, but don’t you play for some club?”
“No.”
“Where did you learn to kick like that?”
“I don’t. . when I was a boy, I practiced, alone. Many hours. I still go out in the park and kick. It makes me feel. . I don’t know.”
“Would you like to play, professionally?” asked Kisolev. “I mean have a tryout, maybe play for one of our park teams for a while.
You could do it and be a police officer. We have firemen, police, even one of the mayor’s staff.”
Zelach shook his head.
“Why?” asked Kisolev. “You’ll be paid.”
“I don’t play,” said Zelach. “I just kick the ball alone. And I have a bad back and my left eye is. . spahssebah, thank you, no.”
The bad back and permanently injured left eye were the result of the attack on Zelach during a stakeout with Sasha Tkach. While Sasha was being seduced by a female member of the gang, Zelach had been beaten by three of the gang of computer thieves. Zelach had spent weeks in the hospital, and months recuperating.