weight.”
“That is—”
“Troy weight. Half on the table, right now. I take it and go. You won’t see me again until I come to collect the second payment.”
“That is a great deal of trust you ask, Mr. Cross.”
“You
called. I came
. You
asked a price. I gave you one.”
“Still, there is always room for reasonable men to discuss such things, is there not?”
“I’m not a reasonable man, Chang. Only two choices on the menu today. And ‘maybe’ isn’t one of them.”
THE WINDOW of the large storefront was crudely painted over in a sun-faded shade of red. The only indication of its contents was a black-lettered sign:
Cross entered without knocking. The back wall was quite close to the window, indicating the storefront had been divided so that the majority of its space was behind that wall.
There was a single round table to the right, all but one of the eight chairs occupied. Cross took the empty chair.
Across from him, a square-faced, block-jawed man sat. He was missing most of one ear, his nose had been broken so many times that it was snouted into a blob with nostrils, and what appeared to be a steel ball bearing served as his right eye.
Although a freshly washed empty glass sat to the man’s right, he made no attempt to fill it. “Russian vodka is only
real
vodka. All else are weak pretenders: ours is the finest in the world. And—ah, you would say it like ‘Imperia’—our Imperia vodka is the best
of
that best. You enter our house unmolested, which means we recognize you as a legitimate criminal. And yet you still refuse to share a drink with your brothers, Cross?”
Cross nodded his head, so slightly that the movement would have been undetectable unless watched for.
“Hah! I am not insulted. Do you know why?”
Cross lit a cigarette.
“You do not drink. So it is not my hospitality you refuse; it is merely that you have a delicate stomach.”
Cross did not react. The man across from him translated what he himself had just said into Russian. The other men at the table chuckled—they had dealt with Cross before, and the idea of him having a “delicate stomach” was certainly worth a good laugh.
“Chang wants to buy some bear claws,” Cross said.
“And he sends you?”
“He
pays
me.”
“Chang is one of the cautious ones. That is why he is such an old man.”
Cross shrugged. “What do I tell him, Viktor?”
“Tell him … Cross, that tattoo on your hand, it was made in prison, yes?”
Cross nodded.
“What does it mean?”
Cross stared through Viktor, but he did not speak.
“Gah! In my country, you
earn
your marks. You see this?” Viktor rose to his feet and pulled up his sweater, revealing an elaborate devil-horned skull, with a snake slithering out of each empty eyeball. The skull was backed by an X-pattern, and surrounded by a strand of barbed wire. Underneath was printed KAYHAC . “Do you know what this means, Cross?”
“No.”
“It means ‘authority.’ How you say this in America? ‘Boss,’ maybe? But more important than just boss, boss in prison. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you know more than most others do about me. So, that one on your hand …”
“It’s a bull’s-eye. A target.”
“This anyone can see. Like the paper circles the police recruits shoot at.”
Cross flexed his right hand slightly, then flattened his palm over his heart, as a child would recite the pledge of allegiance. “You see any hits on
this
one?”
Again, the big Russian translated. And, again, his crew joined him in laughter.
“
Now
we can talk as equals, yes? Okay, then. For Chang, because I admire that old man so much, only twenty-five thousand. That buys him
one
of what he wants—we have a virtually unlimited supply. And we are the
only
source.”
Cross pushed back his chair.
“You have nothing more to say?” Viktor asked.
“I only got paid to listen,” Cross answered. And walked to the door.
AS DARKNESS fell, Viktor was standing in
“That is—”
“Troy weight. Half on the table, right now. I take it and go. You won’t see me again until I come to collect the second payment.”
“That is a great deal of trust you ask, Mr. Cross.”
“You
called. I came
. You
asked a price. I gave you one.”
“Still, there is always room for reasonable men to discuss such things, is there not?”
“I’m not a reasonable man, Chang. Only two choices on the menu today. And ‘maybe’ isn’t one of them.”
THE WINDOW of the large storefront was crudely painted over in a sun-faded shade of red. The only indication of its contents was a black-lettered sign:
Cross entered without knocking. The back wall was quite close to the window, indicating the storefront had been divided so that the majority of its space was behind that wall.
There was a single round table to the right, all but one of the eight chairs occupied. Cross took the empty chair.
Across from him, a square-faced, block-jawed man sat. He was missing most of one ear, his nose had been broken so many times that it was snouted into a blob with nostrils, and what appeared to be a steel ball bearing served as his right eye.
Although a freshly washed empty glass sat to the man’s right, he made no attempt to fill it. “Russian vodka is only
real
vodka. All else are weak pretenders: ours is the finest in the world. And—ah, you would say it like ‘Imperia’—our Imperia vodka is the best
of
that best. You enter our house unmolested, which means we recognize you as a legitimate criminal. And yet you still refuse to share a drink with your brothers, Cross?”
Cross nodded his head, so slightly that the movement would have been undetectable unless watched for.
“Hah! I am not insulted. Do you know why?”
Cross lit a cigarette.
“You do not drink. So it is not my hospitality you refuse; it is merely that you have a delicate stomach.”
Cross did not react. The man across from him translated what he himself had just said into Russian. The other men at the table chuckled—they had dealt with Cross before, and the idea of him having a “delicate stomach” was certainly worth a good laugh.
“Chang wants to buy some bear claws,” Cross said.
“And he sends you?”
“He
pays
me.”
“Chang is one of the cautious ones. That is why he is such an old man.”
Cross shrugged. “What do I tell him, Viktor?”
“Tell him … Cross, that tattoo on your hand, it was made in prison, yes?”
Cross nodded.
“What does it mean?”
Cross stared through Viktor, but he did not speak.
“Gah! In my country, you
earn
your marks. You see this?” Viktor rose to his feet and pulled up his sweater, revealing an elaborate devil-horned skull, with a snake slithering out of each empty eyeball. The skull was backed by an X-pattern, and surrounded by a strand of barbed wire. Underneath was printed KAYHAC . “Do you know what this means, Cross?”
“No.”
“It means ‘authority.’ How you say this in America? ‘Boss,’ maybe? But more important than just boss, boss in prison. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you know more than most others do about me. So, that one on your hand …”
“It’s a bull’s-eye. A target.”
“This anyone can see. Like the paper circles the police recruits shoot at.”
Cross flexed his right hand slightly, then flattened his palm over his heart, as a child would recite the pledge of allegiance. “You see any hits on
this
one?”
Again, the big Russian translated. And, again, his crew joined him in laughter.
“
Now
we can talk as equals, yes? Okay, then. For Chang, because I admire that old man so much, only twenty-five thousand. That buys him
one
of what he wants—we have a virtually unlimited supply. And we are the
only
source.”
Cross pushed back his chair.
“You have nothing more to say?” Viktor asked.
“I only got paid to listen,” Cross answered. And walked to the door.
AS DARKNESS fell, Viktor was standing in
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