Red Ink (7 page)

7

M
edals. A black market in medals. I’ve no doubt it exists—there’d be a black market for toenail clippings if there were a demand for them—but I haven’t the slightest idea where to find it. Of course, the denizens of Moscow’s underworld are no different than others. They live in shadows, prey in darkness, and keep on the move to stay one step ahead of the militia—which sort of narrows it a little. It’s hostile territory, regardless. Yuri was right. If anyone can give me an entrée and safe passage, it’s Arkady Barkhin. All I have to do is find him.

I can’t imagine it will be this easy, but I dig his number out of my files and call him. The woman who answers says she’s had the number for years and has never heard of Arkady Barkhin. To make matters worse, despite a widely publicized contract with a Western supplier, Moscow still doesn’t have a comprehensive telephone directory. Furthermore, before giving out a number, the 09 information service requires the caller know the citizen’s full name and address—which leaves me with my story notes. Hastily written years ago, they contain the names of restaurants and cafés where I’d met with Barkhin and other athletes who’d been junked by the government.

I take the Metro back to the city and spend several evenings making the rounds of
mafiya
-infested night spots. The resident
thugs are easily identified by their Levi’s, leather jackets, and Adidas running shoes. They dismiss my inquiries about Arkady Barkhin with shrugs, glazed eyes, and in some cases, what seem to be convenient memory lapses. My next stop is in the Arbat District.

What functions as a shopping mall by day turns into a freak show after dark. Despite the sub-freezing temperature, the pimps, prostitutes, and supporting cast of con artists are out in full force, feverishly hawking their wares to score as many Johns and take as many suckers as possible before the police shut them down. Even locals can lose their way in this labyrinth of twisting streets and alleys, and it takes me a while to get oriented. I’m being hustled by a rock groupie with purple hair selling back-issues of
Rolling Stone
when I turn a corner and spot a weathered sign that whispers KAFÉ SKAZKA.

It’s a grim cavern of cracked plaster that reeks of tobacco and stale beer. At this hour, the customers are few and silent, the pain of empty lives temporarily deadened. Loners hunch over a slab of stained marble that serves as a bar. The more gregarious commiserate at rickety tables on twisted wire chairs. In a corner far from the window, a group of athlete-enforcers stare blankly into their vodkas in search of past glories.

I’m dying for a drink, but continue to resist the urge and order what must be the evening’s tenth glass of mineral water.

The bartender, a rotund fellow with a face veined like a road map, fills a mug with Borzhomi and slides it in my direction. “Get you anything else?”

I slip a pack of Marlboros from my pocket and place it on the bar. “Some information.”

His eyes dart longingly to the cigarettes, then harden with suspicion. “See that?” He points to the disclaimer that warns smoking can be hazardous to your health. “It goes double for guys like you.”

“I’m not looking for trouble. Just a friend.”

“There are a lot of cafés in Moscow, pal.”

“Yeah, well, I’m hitting all his old haunts.”

The bartender shrugs and wipes up a spill with a damp cloth, imparting a momentary luster to the marble.

“The last time we were in here,” I resume, as he works his way down the bar, “my friend sold the owner on the benefits of paying for protection.”

That gets his attention. Ditto for the desultory characters in the far corner. The sound of eyeballs clicking and necks snapping is followed by the rumble of chair legs and squeak of athletic shoes.

I’m not surprised. Neither is the bartender. He hurries off to clear a distant table as the pitted mirror behind him darkens with swaggering men.

A wall of leather closes around me. A gloved hand beats mine to the Marlboros. I turn on the barstool and find myself staring at the words ELECTRO SHOCK THERAPY. The name of the popular heavy metal band is printed on a skin-tight T-shirt that clings to the thug’s chest. Neo-Nazi stubble covers his head. Sunglasses bridge a broken nose. Hooked and scarred rather than flattened, it’s clearly from battles fought on ice, not canvas.

“You’re looking for a friend in the protection racket?” the thug demands, pushing his face to mine. The sunglasses are so close I can see the designer logo on the lens reads
Ray-Ban.

“Uh-huh. Haven’t seen him in years.”

“You know who he worked for?”

“Nobody. He was putting together his own operation. His name’s Barkhin. Arkady Barkhin.”

“Never heard of him,” he says impassively, though his eyes could be wide with recognition behind those Ray-Bans. “Any of you?”

As I expected, the knuckle-draggers flanking him grunt
“Nyet,”
in unison.

“Well, thanks anyway. No harm in asking.” I force a smile, chalk up the Marlboros to the cost of doing business, and turn back toward the bar.

“Don’t count on it,” Ray-Ban threatens, spinning me around to face him.

My gut flutters and begins to tighten. “Pardon me? Have I missed something here?”

“Yeah, asshole, like the whole point.”

“Which is?”

“Friends always know where to find you. Enemies have to ask.”

“Look, Barkhin and I lost touch.”

“Bullshit.” He removes the cellophane wrapper from the cigarettes
with an angry flick of his wrist. “You owe him money or something. Right?”

I’m getting the feeling he knows more about Arkady Barkhin than he’s telling and am tempted to explain, but think better of it. If owing Barkhin money is what’s on this thug’s mind, I might as well go with it. “Yeah, matter of fact I do. I’m looking for him so I can settle my account.”

“Shame.” He pushes a Marlboro into the corner of his mouth and lights it. “I earn a living off people who welsh on debts.”

“Nothing personal. I take mine seriously.”

“Good. So do we. Come on, let’s have it,” he demands, motioning with his hand.

“Have what?”

“The cash. I’ll make sure your friend gets it.”

Damn. I should’ve seen that coming. There’s no getting away with a white lie in this game. “But you said you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t,” he cackles, drawing raucous laughter from his colleagues. “But my time’s worth a lot more than a fucking pack of Marlboros.” He pockets the cigarettes and signals the others with a nod. Hands grip my arms like vises and pin me to the bar. Ray-Ban goes through my pockets and takes my wallet. He eyes the few rubles with disdain. “What the fuck you think you’re paying back with this?”

I doubt he’d be pleased to hear that I went along with the idea to manipulate him, or, assuming he can read, that I once wrote a story in support of washed-up athletes like him. No, I’m writing another story now and have no choice but to play it out. “I don’t have the money on me. I wasn’t sure I’d find him. I didn’t want to chance carrying it.”

He snorts derisively. “Get him out of here.” He throws the rubles on the floor and stalks off with my wallet in the direction of the phone.

The thugs jerk me from the stool then, all in one motion, hustle me to the door, and gleefully shove me into the street.

My arms break the fall, but the ice-cold cobblestones are ungiving. I lie there for a moment reevaluating my position on discarded athletes, then head for the Metro station on Kropot-kinskaya. It’s the Kirov-Frunze line. Not the Zhdanov-Krasny. Not mine. But I’ve had all the electroshock therapy I can stand for one night and want out of the Arbat as fast as possible. I
take the train north to Lubyanka Square station, until recently Dzerzhinsky Square, site of KGB Headquarters. Several Metro lines interconnect here. The arched colonnades, ornate chandeliers, and prerevolutionary murals go by in a blur as I dash between trains, then settle down for the long haul to Lyublino.

The evening was a total loss. Worse than total. I have less now than when I started: no Marlboros, no wallet, no ID, no money, and no information on black-market medal dealers.

The train lurches. The lights dim briefly. I stiffen, eyeing my fellow passengers with suspicion. A leather jacket on one. Running shoes on another. Sunglasses on a third. Ordinary citizens? Low-level gangsters? Weary workers? I hate to admit it, but Shevchenko was right. Moscow has traded one set of tyrants for another. We used to live in fear of being victimized by the police, now we fear being victimized by criminals. Victimized by ourselves.

8

I
t’s almost midnight when the train pulls into Lyublino Station. Nearly an hour and a half after I kissed the pavement outside Kafé Skazka. Vera’s shift ends soon. I’m counting on her to tend to my bruised ego, aching muscles, and zero bank balance, not necessarily in that order.

Gusts of Arctic wind disperse the smog in wispy layers as I walk to my apartment. The streets are empty except for a few scavenging cats and a tradesman’s van, its dim headlights glowing like balls of yellow cotton. I’m at the corner when I notice a sedan emerging from a darkened side street.

Reflections of refinery lights in the waxed finish catch my eye. Reflections? Moving across sleek forest green lacquer? In Lyublino? Not a chance. Sooty, dull, unpolished wrecks are the rule here; and most residents can’t afford one, not even a broken-down
razvalina,
let alone a spanking new
konfekta
like a Volvo.

I quicken my pace, crossing to the other side of the street, when it dawns on me. A Volvo?! Volvos are favored by Moscow’s midlevel gangsters. I break into a run. The sedan accelerates and cuts me off. For an instant, I’m eyeball to eyeball with the driver. It’s him! Ray-Ban. Still wearing his designer shades.

“Katkov?!” he calls out as the car dives to a rubber-burning stop. “Katkov, wait!”

Why? To get my ass kicked?! I sprint toward the intersection. The two thugs from Kafé Skazka pile out of the car and pursue. I turn into a street lined with boarded-up houses and shuttered storefronts. An alley flashes past. I reverse direction and duck into it before the thugs turn the corner. Barely a meter separates the soaring brick. The alley is so narrow and dark I almost missed it. Maybe they will.

I had no intention of threatening them, but I’ve obviously hit a nerve. Why the sudden paranoia? Do they know Barkhin? Is this a rival mob? Did they get into a turf war with Barkhin’s people and muscle them out? Maybe he
is
dead. My adrenaline surges, forcing painful memories to surface, memories of being hunted. The pit bulls worked for the KGB, not the
mafiya,
and the threat was a stint in the gulag, not eternity in a shallow grave; but this is no time
to
quibble over details. The feelings of terror are the same.

Ray-Ban’s thugs dash past the alley. An instant later, one returns, squinting into the darkness. My heart sinks. I freeze against the gritty bricks, holding my breath. “Katkov?” he calls out. “Katkov, we want to talk.”

About what? Carrying me out of here feet first? No thanks.

He takes a few uncertain steps, leaning left and right to get an angle on the shadows; then, to my relief, he backs out of the alley and hurries off.

I’ve just begun searching for a way out when I hear the thump of air-cushioned running shoes and whisk of denim behind me. He’s back. With his colleague. Two lumbering silhouettes are pushing long shadows in my direction now! I run deeper into the alley. It zigzags wildly, but never branches, never intersects with the streets. Several buildings have steel service doors. I put a shoulder into one, but it won’t budge, nor will the next or the next. I scan the darkness frantically. A pale red glow spills across the pavement just beyond the last building. All of a sudden it changes to green. A neon sign? A traffic light? I take the turn on the run, and there, at the far end of the alley, is what looks like an intersection.

A car flashes past.

It is an intersection! If I can make it into the streets, I’ve got a chance of losing them. But then what? They’ll be all over my apartment. Ray-Ban is probably heading there right now. Vera’s place! Her roommates will be pissed off, but I could stay there
for a while. I’m sprinting down the narrow chasm when I sense something in the darkness. A pattern. Vertical lines. Black against blackness. There and gone. And there again. I put on the brakes an instant before running into a wrought-iron fence. Topped with spikes and barbed wire, it keeps me from the street not ten meters beyond.

The thugs keep coming. Walking rapidly now, not running, they advance confidently, without any sense of urgency as they close in.

There’s no way I’m going down without a fight. I whirl and lunge between them, throwing a punch at the one nearest me. He blocks it, grasps my wrist, and snaps my arm up behind my back. The other puts a pistol to my head.

“Easy, Katkov. Take it easy,” he advises. “Didn’t you hear what we said? We want to talk.”

The glint of the muzzle flickers in the corner of my eye. I’m terrified. Exhausted. I can barely catch my breath, barely get a word out. I nod eagerly. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Instead of blowing my brains out or beating me senseless, the thug lowers the pistol, and they march me from the alley in silence. Headlights bend around the opposite corner as we reach the street. The Volvo dives to a stop next to us. The thugs push me into the seat and clamber in on either side. The doors are still open when Ray-Ban floors the accelerator. The Volvo heads west on the Outer Ring, cutting across the outskirts of the city.

The silence continues.

They said they wanted to talk, but they’re not talking. I haven’t the slightest idea what’s going on or where we’re headed, but it isn’t long before my imagination cooks up a few scenarios: They lied, so I wouldn’t struggle, wouldn’t scream, so they wouldn’t have to kill me in the alley and carry my body out to dispose of it. Shrewd bastards. Sporting of me to save them the inconvenience, to sign up for a trip from which I’ll never return.

The Volvo turns off into the Frunze District, where the Moskva loops back on itself, encircling Luzhniki Stadium. Ray-Ban maneuvers through desolate streets awash with litter and stops in front of an abandoned building. Heavy bronze doors, deep-set windows, and a peristyle of bloated columns that support a peaked roof suggest the graffiti-scrawled edifice was once
a bank. The greenish stain of metal letters that were once affixed to the granite confirm it.

Ray-Ban and his thugs escort me to the entrance. He presses a buzzer. A security slot opens, revealing wary eyes. Then with a portentous shudder the huge door swings back into a brilliantly illuminated vestibule. It takes me a few moments to become accustomed to the light. Instead of the rat-infested hovel I expected, the well-dressed guard clears us into a tastefully decorated anteroom where my head fills with the smell of alcohol and perfume. Or is it formaldehyde and funeral wreaths? The thugs remain behind as Ray-Ban leads the way through several more doors where the rhythmic thump of music rises.

The last opens into a private club. They’ve been sprouting all over the city lately to service the new class of free-market entrepreneurs and their guests: clubs with names like Olimp, Atlant, Warrior, and Chernobyl offer everything from gourmet food and wine to erotic revues, rock music, and what are billed as “sensual massages.”

But few Muscovites have ever imagined, let alone visited, one like Paradise: Towering palms and lush floral arrangements are set against murals reminiscent of Gauguin’s Tahitian landscapes. Wispy clouds seem to drift lazily across a vaulted ceiling. Colorful parrots stock a circular aviary. Indeed, it’s a tropical paradise. The last time I encountered anything like this was twenty years ago in Havana on my honeymoon. Nothing in terminally gray Moscow can compare with the club’s sunny opulence or sultry floor show.

The dancers, all exotic Latin women, are writhing suggestively to an infectious merengue beat, leaving no doubt their skimpy halters and hip-hugging sarongs are destined for removal. Seated on semicircular tiers are Moscow’s well-heeled elite, members of government, diplomats, entrepreneurs, owners of local cooperatives, and an assortment of foreign business types. All are valiantly trying to guide food and beverages to their mouths without taking their eyes off the stage—all except those in the adjacent casino, who are captivated by the whizz of roulette wheels and clatter of chips.

The Paradise Club is right out of Las Vegas. Not that I’ve been there. My knowledge comes from a friend—a former member of
a SALT inspection team stationed in Nevada—who smuggled a risqué travel brochure past Customs inspectors.

Ray-Ban leads the way to a corner booth where an elegantly dressed man with a phone pressed to his ear presides over the action. A magnum of champagne, a crystal flute, a bowl of caviar, and my wallet are arranged on the table in front of him. Young women with the stunning looks of fashion models are perched on either side. Rich, powerful, venerated, it’s immediately obvious he’s a crime boss, but it takes a moment for me to realize that the handsome, deeply tanned fellow, the
vor v zakone
of the local mob, is Arkady Barkhin.

He finishes the call and glances up. “Nikolai Katkov,” he says thoughtfully.

“Arkady.” It catches in the back of my throat and is barely audible.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

I nod apprehensively, my eyes darting about the dazzling interior. “In all the wrong places.”

“Everyone finds their way here, eventually.”

“Some more easily than others, I imagine.”

He smiles indulgently. “I also hear we have some unfinished business.”

“No. No, that was his idea,” I hear myself saying, indifferent to Ray-Ban’s reaction. I’m concerned about Barkhin now, concerned he’ll be offended by my raising something as trivial as black-market medal dealers; but this is no time to choke. “Actually, Arkady, I was hoping you could—”

“Don’t try to back out of it,” he interrupts, glaring at me. “I hate unpaid debts. They fester. They get in the way of business. They destroy friendships. It’s time, Katkov. Time to settle up.” He leans back, taking his measure of me, then his eyes soften I with amusement. “But as I remember it, I don’t hold the marker. You do.”

My heart flutters with relief, then accelerates in disbelief. “Me?” I finally squeak.

“Yes, I’m the one in debt here,” Barkhin replies, embellishing the moment as he gestures to the club. “See this? I worked hard for it. Busted my ass, believe me. Had some luck too. But you don’t get to the top without owing somebody something. In my case, none of it would’ve happened without you, Katkov.” He lets it hang there mysteriously and reaches inside his
jacket for his wallet. His manicured nails pluck something from one of the sleeves. It’s a yellowed newspaper clipping, which he unfolds carefully, making certain the fragile creases don’t tear, and places it on the table in front of me. “Remember this?”

It’s been almost ten years, and it takes a moment to recognize my own article. I can’t imagine how an exposé on the treatment of over-the-hill athletes could have anything to do with Barkhin’s success.

“I don’t mean the part about being junked by the State,” he explains, sensing he’s puzzled me. “Oh, we were really getting screwed. It had to be said; and it took guts to say it, a lot of guts, but—”

“Stupidity,
according to some.”

“No. No, it helped. Things got a little better. But what you said about athletes and free enterprise . . . If it wasn’t for that, I’d still be working out of the Skazka.”

I light a cigarette, trying to recall what I said. The match fizzles. I’m about to strike another when Barkhin produces a butane lighter with an air of self-importance, just in case I don’t know they’re a status symbol. PARADISE CLUB is printed on the barrel. A stylized parrot serves as the
P.

“The part I’m talking about is right here.” He stabs a forefinger at a short paragraph bracketed in faded red marker. “I mean, when I read that retired athletes in the West were making it big in business, that their itch to compete, their work ethic, their let-the-best-man-win mentality were the keys to their success, a light went on. It dawned on me that, unlike the average Russian who was taught to shun individual achievement, athletes have what it takes to make it in a free market. It changed my life.”

“I couldn’t be more pleased,” I reply, amazed how a few sentences in a twenty-five-hundred-word article—sentences I can barely recall writing—can stick in a person’s mind and have such impact. I do vaguely recall they were an afterthought. Something I threw in there to needle the
apparatchiks
at Goskomsport. And ten years ago, neither I, nor Barkhin, nor the brainwashed bureaucrats had any reason to believe they would ever be anything more.

“No kidding,” he goes on enthusiastically. “It really kicked me in the ass. Made me stop whining. Made me realize I didn’t need pity or a bigger pension. Made me believe in myself. And,
as they say—” He pauses dramatically, playing to his fawning models. “The rest is history.”

History indeed.

His gratitude is such that after returning my wallet and apologizing for his thugs’ behavior, he dismisses the ladies and insists I join him. I spend the evening fending off glasses of champagne as he chronicles his rise from a one-man protection racket to an entrepreneur operating a string of what he refers to as “service companies.” It’s almost four in the morning by the time he runs out of gas and his thoughts turn to other matters. “I always end the evening with a nice piece of fruit,” he confides enigmatically.

Fruit?”

“Tropical fruit.” He inclines his head toward the stage and grins lasciviously. “Smooth brown skin, flesh filled with juices and ready to explode. Which one made your mouth water, Nikolai?”

“Which
one?"

He chortles and cups his hands out in front of his chest. “You recall the spinner with the coconuts?”

“Oh, I recall lots of coconuts, Arkady.”

“The turned-up ones.” His forefingers point skyward. “The hot little Chiquita who was on the left?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Absolutely insatiable. She’s yours.”

“Thanks,” I reply, momentarily tempted by the fantasy. “But I have a lovely bunch of my own. And they’re more than I can handle.”

“Then what? How can I thank you? Money? A job? Name it.”

“A source.”

“A source?” he echoes with an incredulous cackle. “Who else but a journalist would trade the best fuck in Moscow for information?”

“A
dissident
journalist.”