“Not quite like that,” said Shatalov, seriously. “Different, but close enough. How do you know this? I don’t tell anyone my dreams.”
“It is a variation of the dream others like you, other Mafia leaders, the older ones, have.”
“The Tatar?”
“I haven’t asked him yet,” said Rostnikov. “He wouldn’t tell me if I did.”
“But you knew I would?”
“The moment I saw you eating your pizza,” said Rostnikov.
The eyes of the mobster and the policeman met. Shatalov shook his head.
“I think I like you, policeman. I’ve heard much about you, but I didn’t expect a dream-reading madman.”
“The trick of surviving is not to expect but to anticipate,” said Rostnikov.
“Speak on. I cannot stay here too long.”
“You had Lashkovich murdered,” said Rostnikov.
“Lashkovich? Is that the name of the dead Tatar? Is he related to our beloved mayor?”
“Yes, that was his name. No, he is not related to the mayor.”
“I didn’t have him killed,” said Shatalov, sitting back. “If I did have him killed, I would tell you. Maybe not directly, but I would let you know, take credit.”
Rostnikov believed him. He was sure that if he had killed the Tatar, the Chechin would have said so or made it clear.
“I have ordered the body of Lashkovich be turned over to Chenko,” said Rostnikov. “He will be buried tomorrow morning.
In return, Chenko has agreed that he will not seek retribution against you for seven days.”
“That is sweet of him,” said Shatalov with a smile.
“I ask that you too engage in no acts of violence against Chenko’s people,” said Rostnikov. “At least for one week.”
“And why should I do this?”
“Three reasons,” said Rostnikov, resisting the urge to reach for another piece of pizza, which was undoubtably cold by now. “First, because I ask you and would view your pledge as an act of good will that I would remember. Second, since you did not kill Lashkovich, and Chenko, I believe, did not kill your men, someone is trying to start a war between you. Personally, and I hope you will not forgive my saying so, I would normally not find it upsetting for such a war to break out except that innocent lives would be lost.”
“There are no innocent lives,” said Shatalov.
“That is a statement which you can make to a philosopher or a drunk if you wish a discussion,” said Rostnikov. “I wish to save lives.”
“And third?” asked Shatalov as a waiter brought a fresh pizza and took the old one’s remains away.
“If you do not agree, if you kill, as I have told you, I will devote myself to the destruction of both you and Chenko.”
“You are already devoted to that, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Rostnikov, unable to resist a slice of the fresh pizza, which seemed to be covered with mushrooms. Rostnikov had a passion for mushrooms, peaches, and his wife’s cooking. “Your destruction is the province of the organized-gang division of the Ministry of the Interior. I have been given an assignment. I intend to fulfill that assignment.”
“Tell me, Inspector,” said Shatalov, handing a slice of pizza to the big man with the bad complexion and taking one for himself.
“How would you like to make a great deal of money?”
“I think not,” said Rostnikov. “It would change lifelong habits and disorient me. It might also, depending on the source of such sums, result in compromising me in the performance of my duties, duties that form the meaning of my life as a police officer.”
“Impressive,” said Shatalov. “Did you just think up that little speech?”
“Read it in an American novel, Ed McBain. It is a paraphrase but essentially accurate.”
“Ed McBain?”
“I will be happy to let you borrow a copy of one of his books on the condition that you kill no one for a week. Do you read English?”
“A bit,” said Shatalov with a mouthful of pizza, a string of cheese dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“It will be worth the effort. You agree to my conditions?”
Shatalov wiped the dangling cheese from his mouth, shrugged, and then nodded.
“If none of my people is attacked, I’ll consider your seven-day truce,” he said, putting down his napkin. “I’ll do better. I’ll do nothing for two weeks unless the one-eyed son-of-a-syphilitic-goat does something first.”
It was Rostnikov’s turn to nod.
“You want to hear a joke?” asked Shatalov, his mouth full of pizza.
“I can think of nothing I would like more,” said Rostnikov.
“Your wife is a Jew. It will help you to appreciate it more.”
Rostnikov said nothing. Shatalov, though he acted the fool, had subtly informed the inspector that he knew a great deal about him.
“Well,” said Shatalov. “There were these two cows about to be slaughtered kosher. The first cow asked the other one, ‘What’s cooking?’ The second cow said, ‘Don’t ask.’ ”
Shatalov laughed again. So did the big man with the bad complexion. Rostnikov did not laugh. He stood with some difficulty, pushing back the chair and working his artificial leg under him.
“You want to take the rest of this pizza?” Shatalov said. “We’ve had enough.”
“Why not?” said Rostnikov after a very brief pause. “I do not think my superior would consider half a large mushroom pizza a compromise of my principles.”
Shatalov laughed and pointed at the detective. The restaurant went silent. “I have a last question,” said the Chechin. “Did the Tatar hen dipped in sheep shit call me ‘Irving’?”
“I would prefer not to recall,” said Rostnikov.
“I think I’ll be seeing you soon,” said Shatalov, motioning to the waiting waiter, who hurried over and packaged the remaining half-pizza for the rumpled man with the bad leg who looked like a refrigerator.
And so it was that a weary Rostnikov entered his apartment on Krasikov Street with a treat for two little girls, their grandmother, and Sarah Rostnikov.
“Why are you not in bed?” he asked, handing the box to Laura, the elder.
Both children were wearing nightshirts.
“Grandmother said we could stay up and watch you picking up the heavy things.”
“We like to watch,” said the younger girl.
“I know,” said Rostnikov, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the rack near the front door.
Sarah got up and came to him, touching his face and looking at his eyes.
“Hungry?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Maybe later,” he said. “Have a piece of pizza.” The girls took the prize to their grandmother, who sat at the small table near the window.
“I’ve eaten,” said Sarah.
“Are you all right today?” he asked, very softly, examining her face.
Sarah Rostnikov had undergone surgery to remove a benign growth from her brain more than two years ago. Since the operation, she had periods of dizziness and took pills her cousin, Leon the doctor, gave her. There were days when she could not go to work, and only the fact that Porfiry Petrovich was an important chief inspector saved her job.
“I’m fine,” she said with a smile.
She had gained weight before her operation but had steadily grown more trim since. She looked, with her smooth pale skin and red hair, much as she had looked as a young woman. Illness had not aged her. On the contrary, it had, ironically, made her look younger.
There were no messages, no neighbors with toilet or sink problems, no urgent calls to contact his office.
The girls sat next to each other on the floor eating pizza while Rostnikov changed into his gray sweat suit, turned on a cassette of the American rock group Creedence Clearwater Revival. He had discovered the tape by accident, buying it for next to nothing at an outdoor market. Now it was one of his favorites. If he ever went to America, he would try to meet Ed McBain and John Fogarty, who sang and wrote most of the Creedence Clearwater songs. “Bad Moon Rising” began at the same moment Porfiry Petrovich lay back on the narrow bench he had pulled out from the cabinet against the wall. He lined up his weights and began. The women at the table talked softly, and the two little girls ate and watched the serious ritual that they knew was designed to make one stronger, only Rostnikov was already the strongest man in the world, they were certain. They had concluded some weeks ago that he simply enjoyed doing this, which struck them both as very strange, given the pain and grunting and sweat. Adults were very strange and unpredictable creatures.