Read Online Wolves Eat Dogs by Martin Cruz Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martin Cruz Smith
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Arkady put away the pack. He hated to see Anton get worked up. There were actually three Antons. There was the violent Anton, who would snap your neck as easily as shake your hand; there was Anton the rational businessman; and there was the Anton whose eyes took an evasive course when anything personal was discussed. Most of all, Arkady didn't like to see the first Anton get excited.
Anton said, "I just think at your age, you shouldn't abuse your body."
"At my age?"
"Look, go fuck yourself, for all I care."
"That's more like it."
A smile crept onto Anton's lips. "See, I can talk to you. We communicate."
Arkady and Anton did communicate. Both understood that Anton's prize cell was available only because of a belated effort to bring Butyrka's ancient chamber of horrors up to modern European prison standards, and both understood that such a cell would obviously go to the highest bidder. Both also understood that while the Mafia ruled the streets, a subcaste of tattooed, geriatric criminals still ruled the prison yards. If Anton were stuck in an ordinary cell, he would be a shark in a tank with a thousand piranhas.
Anton couldn't sit still without twitching a pec here, a deltoid there. "You're a good guy, Renko. We may not see eye to eye, but you always treat a person with respect. You speak English?"
"Yes."
Anton picked up a copy of Architectural Digest horn the bunk and flipped to a picture of a western lodge set against a mountain range. "Colorado. Beautiful nature and, as an investment, relatively inexpensive. What do you think?"
"Can you ride a horse?"
"Is that necessary?"
"I think so."
"I can learn. I'll give you the money. Cash. You go and negotiate, pay whatever you think is fair. It could be a beautiful partnership. You have an honest face."
"I appreciate the offer. Did you hear that Pasha Ivanov is dead?"
"I saw the news on television. He jumped, right? Ten stories, what a way to go."
"Did you know him?"
"Me know Ivanov? That's like knowing God."
"You left a message on his mobile phone three nights ago about cutting off his dick. That sounds like you knew him fairly well. It might even sound like a threat."
"I'm not allowed a phone here, so how could I call?"
"You bribed a guard and called from the guards' room."
Anton got to his feet and threw punches as if hitting a heavy bag. "Well, like they say, there's a crow in every flock." He stopped and shook out his arms. "Anyway, if I called Pasha Ivanov, what about?"
"Business. Somebody has been jacking NoviRus Oil trucks and draining the tanks. It's happening in your part of Moscow—in your soup, so to speak."
Anton circled again, throwing jabs, crosses, uppercuts. He backed, covered up, seemed to dodge a punch and then moved forward, rolling his shoulders and snapping jabs while the cell got smaller and smaller. Anton may not have been a champion, but when he was in motion, he took up a lot of room. Finally he dropped his fists and blew air. "He has this prick in charge of security, a former colonel from the KGB. They caught one of my boys with one of their trucks and broke his legs. That's overreaction. It put me in a difficult situation. If I didn't retaliate, my boys would break my legs. But I don't want a war. I'm sick of that. Instead, I wanted to go straight to the top, and also make a point about the colonel's bullshit security by calling Ivanov on his personal phone. I said what I said. It was an opening line; maybe a little crude, but it was meant to begin a dialogue. I have body shops, tanning salons, a restaurant. I'm a respectable businessman. I would have loved to work with Pasha Ivanov, to learn at his knee."
"What was the favor? What did you have to offer him?"
"Protection."
"Naturally."
"Anyway, I never got through and never saw him face-to-face. It seems to me, when Pasha died I was right here, and that phone call proves it."
"Pretty lucky."
"I live right." Anton was modest.
"What did they pick you up for?"
"Possession of
Anton said, "I just think at your age, you shouldn't abuse your body."
"At my age?"
"Look, go fuck yourself, for all I care."
"That's more like it."
A smile crept onto Anton's lips. "See, I can talk to you. We communicate."
Arkady and Anton did communicate. Both understood that Anton's prize cell was available only because of a belated effort to bring Butyrka's ancient chamber of horrors up to modern European prison standards, and both understood that such a cell would obviously go to the highest bidder. Both also understood that while the Mafia ruled the streets, a subcaste of tattooed, geriatric criminals still ruled the prison yards. If Anton were stuck in an ordinary cell, he would be a shark in a tank with a thousand piranhas.
Anton couldn't sit still without twitching a pec here, a deltoid there. "You're a good guy, Renko. We may not see eye to eye, but you always treat a person with respect. You speak English?"
"Yes."
Anton picked up a copy of Architectural Digest horn the bunk and flipped to a picture of a western lodge set against a mountain range. "Colorado. Beautiful nature and, as an investment, relatively inexpensive. What do you think?"
"Can you ride a horse?"
"Is that necessary?"
"I think so."
"I can learn. I'll give you the money. Cash. You go and negotiate, pay whatever you think is fair. It could be a beautiful partnership. You have an honest face."
"I appreciate the offer. Did you hear that Pasha Ivanov is dead?"
"I saw the news on television. He jumped, right? Ten stories, what a way to go."
"Did you know him?"
"Me know Ivanov? That's like knowing God."
"You left a message on his mobile phone three nights ago about cutting off his dick. That sounds like you knew him fairly well. It might even sound like a threat."
"I'm not allowed a phone here, so how could I call?"
"You bribed a guard and called from the guards' room."
Anton got to his feet and threw punches as if hitting a heavy bag. "Well, like they say, there's a crow in every flock." He stopped and shook out his arms. "Anyway, if I called Pasha Ivanov, what about?"
"Business. Somebody has been jacking NoviRus Oil trucks and draining the tanks. It's happening in your part of Moscow—in your soup, so to speak."
Anton circled again, throwing jabs, crosses, uppercuts. He backed, covered up, seemed to dodge a punch and then moved forward, rolling his shoulders and snapping jabs while the cell got smaller and smaller. Anton may not have been a champion, but when he was in motion, he took up a lot of room. Finally he dropped his fists and blew air. "He has this prick in charge of security, a former colonel from the KGB. They caught one of my boys with one of their trucks and broke his legs. That's overreaction. It put me in a difficult situation. If I didn't retaliate, my boys would break my legs. But I don't want a war. I'm sick of that. Instead, I wanted to go straight to the top, and also make a point about the colonel's bullshit security by calling Ivanov on his personal phone. I said what I said. It was an opening line; maybe a little crude, but it was meant to begin a dialogue. I have body shops, tanning salons, a restaurant. I'm a respectable businessman. I would have loved to work with Pasha Ivanov, to learn at his knee."
"What was the favor? What did you have to offer him?"
"Protection."
"Naturally."
"Anyway, I never got through and never saw him face-to-face. It seems to me, when Pasha died I was right here, and that phone call proves it."
"Pretty lucky."
"I live right." Anton was modest.
"What did they pick you up for?"
"Possession of
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