by Greg Dinallo
The dealers are surprisingly young, most in their late teens and twenties. Their merchandise sparkles in the early light, displayed on blankets that are spread across tailgates and hoods, on rectangular panels that stack neatly in attaché cases, and on the linings of coats that they open as if revealing their manhood. It’s like a gypsy bazaar: facile minds, quick hands, wary eyes, the exclamations of shock and disbelief when a price is quoted; then rapid-fire bargaining, the rustle of currency, and jingle of metal as deals are struck and money and medals change hands. Buyers waste no time in leaving once the transaction is completed. Dealers waste none shifting their attention to the next customer. Rank leads the way to a small group gathered at the tailgate of a truck and introduces me.
“You want to write about us?” a young dealer with shoulder-length hair asks warily. “Why?”
“To earn a living.”
“Fair enough. What’s in it for us?”
“Police harassment!” someone shouts. “Yeah, they’ll be all over us!” another exclaims, causing several to back away.
“Hold it! Hold it,” I object as Rafik corrals them. “You mean the militia doesn’t know about your operation?”
“You kidding?” Long-hair snorts. “We make sure we keep one step ahead of them.”
“A little vzyatka goes a long way,” a compact fellow says smugly, using slang for graft.
“Then my story will have customers, not cops, beating a path to your door.”
“He’s right,” someone mutters grudgingly. “Yeah, yeah, he is,” another enthuses. An impromptu conclave, with much whispering and sagacious nodding of heads, follows. “Okay,” the long-haired spokesman announces when they adjourn. “But no names. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Where do you get your merchandise?”
“From people who need cash.”
“Give me an example?”
“Sure,” one of the teenagers with an Iron Maiden T-shirt and squeaky voice pipes up. “My uncle had all kinds of medals from the war. When he died, my family sold them, took the cash, and went on a shopping spree. We got a new car, a TV, VCR. My sister got braces, and I got these.” He gestures proudly to his high-topped basketball shoes with built-in air pumps. “I also got into the business.”
“But that can’t be your only source of supply?”
“What do you mean by that?” Long-hair asks, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“Well, from what I hear, some medals are worth a lot of money. They could be stolen like jewelry, couldn’t they?”
“Stolen?!” he snaps, offended. The dealers move forward threateningly. “Are you accusing us of fencing stolen goods?”
“No. No, of course not. It was a poor choice of words,” I explain, my mind racing for a way to defuse the situation. “For the sake of argument, why don’t we say medals that were—lost—then found by an enterprising individual—and sold to you?”
Uncertain looks dart between them. Several nod grudgingly. “It’s possible,” Long-hair concedes.
“Would there be a way to identify them?”
“You mean to determine if a medal or group of medals are the same ones that were lost?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It depends.” He turns to one of the displays, selects several medals, and explains, “You can see right here: Some are numbered, some have initials on the back, some even have names, others are blank. Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious,” I reply matter-of-factly. Their reaction to my comment about stolen medals makes talk of murder and government scandal unwise. “Who are your buyers, by the way?” I ask, purposely changing the subject.
“All kinds of people. Collectors, metal brokers, pensioners.”
“A lot of them are into blat,” another pipes up. “You know, special privileges, beating the long lines at markets, getting into shops closed to the average citizen.”
“They come in handy on a crowded train or bus too,” a third chimes in. “Not to mention scoring tickets to rock concerts and soccer finals.”
“Sounds good. I wish I could afford some.”
The group breaks into easy laughter. The tension evaporates. As a joke, the squeaky-voiced one gives me a znachki, the cheap commemorative lapel pins sold to tourists at kiosks. Some have a picture of St. George slaying the Dragon. Others, the image of the Kremlin. This one has a small photo centered in a five-pointed red star—a photo of Lenin as an infant which evokes more laughter. The mood gradually turns businesslike as several of the dealers notice customers hovering about. It’s a perfect time to disengage.
Rafik and I are moving off when he cups a hand over his mouth as if revealing a State secret and whispers, “Nationalism.”
“What about it?”
“It’s on the rise. What do you think this madness for medals is all about? When things get bad, people get nostalgic. They want to relive past victories: Bolshevism, World War Two, Stalin, Sputnik. The Communists will make a comeback. Mark my words.”
“You left out the gulag.”
“With good reason.”
“Perm thirty-five,” I announce, sensing where he’s headed.
“Chistopol,” he fires back. “Three years for—”
“—crimes against the State,” we say in unison, breaking into laughter at the absurdity of the catch-all charge; but our levity is short-lived. Rafik’s eyes glaze. So do mine, as visions of the gulag come back with chilling clarity: the rough concrete cells—two steps wide, three steps long—less than twenty square meters for two men; a dim light bulb, an open toilet, wooden planks for beds. No windows. Not even bars. Just a solid iron door. I can still hear its chilling clang—and still shudder at the screech of the kormushka, the slot through which coarse black bread, boiled potatoes, cabbage, or a thin gruel masquerading as kasha were thrown as if to animals. The monotonous, mindless work. Sweltering heat. Bitter cold. Disease. No contact with the outside world. No visitors. No daylight. No mail.
“Never again,” Rafik says, pulling me out of it.
I smile wanly. “While we’re on the subject . . .”
“The gulag?”
“No. Crimes against the State. If some medals were stolen, what are the chances of establishing a chain of custody?”
“You mean, find the dealer who bought them and work back to the thief?”
“Uh-huh.”
Rafik’s head cocks suspiciously. “There’s more on your agenda than food and rent, isn’t there, Katkov?”
I nod.
“Good luck.”
“Look, I’m not out to make trouble. Frankly, this story began with a . . . a certain incident, and I’m trying to sort out the motive.”
“Incident?” he flares. “I’m not into riddles. Speak plainly or forget it.”
“Murder. Plain enough?”
“Someone lost more than their medals.”
“Yes. I want to find out if it really was a robbery, or a shrewd way to cover another reason for killing him.”
“You have the poor bastard’s name?”
“Vorontsov. Vladimir Illiych.”
Rafik’s brows rise and fall. He’s mulling it over when the darkness is split by the sweeping headlights and acid blue flashers of police vans. This sets off a frantic buttoning of coats, packing of cases, and rolling of blankets and sends dealers and buyers scattering to their vehicles. Amid roaring engines and screeching tires, those of us on foot literally head for the hills and cover of dense foliage.
“You have a car?” I call out on the run. There’s no reply. I glance over my shoulder. Rafik’s gone. Vanished as mysteriously as he’d appeared.
I’m dashing toward the evergreens when several of the scattering dealers up ahead suddenly reverse direction. A phalanx of uniformed officers with revolvers and riot guns comes out of nowhere and fires a volley of warning shots. We freeze in our tracks, hands over our heads, as the officers advance in an ever-tightening circle. They frisk us and confiscate our IDs as several large vans with barred windows r
oll into the clearing.
A sergeant begins calling out names, checking them off on his clipboard as each prisoner is handcuffed and put in the van. He goes through about ten before getting to mine.
“Katkov?”
“Here,” I reply, disgusted, as I cross toward him. “Look, I’m a journalist. I’m not involved in anything illegal. I’m covering a story.”
“Get in.” He shoves me toward the door.
“You’re making a big mistake. Senior Investigator Shevchenko’s a friend of mine.”
The sergeant cocks his head skeptically.
“He is. I’m telling you. Get him on the radio. Give him my name.”
That does the trick. The sergeant takes my arm and leads me through the trees. The sun is creeping over the horizon as we emerge. It sends long shadows across the hills, and silhouettes a tall figure in a trench coat who’s overseeing the operation. Son of a bitch. It’s the senior investigator himself. This is his show. As we’re crossing toward him, two officers, who have the long-haired dealer in custody, beat us to Shevchenko.
“I’m sure we can work something out here,” the dealer says cockily. He pulls a wad of U.S. dollars from his raincoat, removes the rubber band, and starts counting off hundreds. He stops at ten.
Shevchenko turns away and lights a cigarette.
The dealer adds ten more.
Shevchenko exhales impassively. After five more hundreds join the stack, he reconsiders, nods thoughtfully, and pockets it.
The dealer smiles and starts to turn away.
Shevchenko signals the officers. “Take him. Add attempting to bribe a militia officer to the charges and bag this as evidence.”
“You bastard!” the dealer cries out, resisting the attempt to cuff him. “You fucking bastard!”
“Add the use of disrespectful language as well.”
The officers smirk and ratchet the cuffs tight against the dealer’s wrists. The sergeant prods me forward as they lead him away. “This one claims he knows you, sir.”
“Up early today, Mr. Investigator?” I tease.
Shevchenko looks at me blankly for a long moment. “What’s his name?” he asks, deadpan.
My eyes roll. “Come on, Shevchenko.”
“Katkov, Nikolai,” the sergeant growls.
Shevchenko’s brow furrows. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” He whispers something to the sergeant, smiles thinly, and walks away.
The sergeant hustles me to a prisoner van, shoves me inside, and slams the door. Angry medal dealers crowd two long benches that face one another. There must be at least a dozen of them. Their eyes burn with hatred, leaving no doubt who they think is to blame for what happened. Fortunately, their hands, like mine, are cuffed behind their backs.
The van shudders to life and chugs off. It’s gone a short distance when one of the dealers spits at me. Then another. And another. Finally, the long-haired one rears back and kicks me in the ribs, inciting the others, who leap from the benches. I bull my way into a corner of the van, kicking wildly to keep them at bay. My heel catches one in the chest, driving him back into the others, but there are too many of them. A boot slams into my groin. A knee connects with my forehead. I howl, racked with pain, and crumple to the floor. They’re out of control now, shouting, stomping, spitting, calling me names.
I’m convinced I’m going to die when suddenly the van dives to a stop, sending the dealers tumbling forward in a tangled heap. The door opens, revealing the muzzles of two riot guns.
“Okay! That’s enough! Settle down” the sergeant shouts. He scans the group for a moment. “You,” he says, pointing his weapon at me.
“Me?” I ask weakly, wiping the blood that seeps from the corner of my mouth.
“Out. Move it.”
I extricate myself and crawl eagerly to the door. The cops help me to the ground and slam it shut. Then they hustle me around to the cab, shove me inside between them, and drive off.
“You okay?” the sergeant asks gruffly.
“Great. They damn near killed me.”
“There wasn’t any chance of that happening.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Thanks anyway.”
“Don’t thank us. It was Investigator Shevchenko’s idea. He figured they’d take it out on you. He said to let it go on just long enough to teach you a lesson.”
“Well, I’m a very fast learner.”
“Good,” the sergeant says with a malevolent sneer. “Your education’s just begun.”
10
I’m making notes, but I’m in a cell in the bowels of 38 Petrovka, not a classroom. I’ve got plenty of material for a piece on the black market in medals. The crackdown will make it all the more interesting, assuming I get out of here to write it. Fortunately, Shevchenko decided not to put me in with the dealers, and I’ve got a cell all to myself. I’ve been cooling my heels in this dank, wretched-smelling pigpen for over four hours when the jailer delivers a cell mate.
Bald, bearded, and rotund, the poor fellow looks like a refugee from a monastery. He throws his coat on the wooden bench in disgust, looks the place over, and scowls at me. “So, what are you in for?”
“I got caught in a sweep of medal dealers.”
“Ah, a black marketeer.”
“No, I’m a free-lance journalist. I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You?”
“Exploitation of meat.”
“Spekulatsiya?"
“Da, spekulatsiya. I bought beef in Smolensk at a very low price, and sold it in Moscow for a big markup.”
“And they arrested you? Sounds like you’re a smart butcher to me.”
“Tell them that.”
“I will.”
“Actually I’m an engineer.”
“An engineer? You sure don’t look like one,” I say in English, falling back into an old habit acquired during my years in the gulag. It was automatic with a new cell mate, a subtle way to expose informers, since most political prisoners spoke some English while most KGB plants were illiterate dullards who didn’t. We nailed several that way, until the warden caught on and imported English speakers to spy on us. We also spoke it so the guards wouldn’t understand. Sometimes we’d talk about the weather just to piss them off. “Where’d you get your degree?”
“Degrees,” the meat peddler replies in English, his voice ringing with defiance and pride. “Both from Moscow Polytechnic Institute.”
“A fine school.”
“Finest school,” he corrects, continuing in English. “Then the whole hell broke loose. One minute I am having career, and the next, nothing.”
“Defense cutbacks?”
“Yes, yes, cutbacks. The obsession with having democracy. It makes everything ruined.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“You are in favor?”
“All my life.”
“So was I. So was family. Until they learned what will be the cost. Until wife won’t be having the dress. Until son won’t be having the cassette player.” He pauses and smiles in a way that indicates he’s about to make a clever point. “Until they see Viktor hawking the meat to make the ends meet.” His smile broadens. “Pun intended.”
“Very good, Viktor.”
He preens. “Now, they long for Communists.”
His English isn’t as good as mine, but it’s more than adequate. I’m not surprised. Most university graduates in our age group speak it. Those who were fortunate enough to be raised by educated parents and sent to elite schools, as I was, do so quite well. I’ve resumed my note-making when a familiar voice calls out, “Katkov?”
It’s Shevchenko. He stands outside the cell with a smug grin, enjoying the sight of me behind bars.
“You just here to gloat, or what?”
“No. Someone vouched for you. I can’t imagine why.” He nods to a guard, who unlocks the cell and leads me out.
“What about him?” I ask, gesturing to Viktor.
“Not a chance,” Shevchenko replies sharply, as the
cell door clangs shut behind me and we start down the corridor. “He doesn’t have a knack for merely being underfoot like you. He’s a grifter and has to be taught a lesson.”
“You’re very big on lessons these days, aren’t you, Mr. Investigator?”
We pause at a security door. His eyes sweep over my bruised face and disheveled clothes. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”
“Makes two of us,” I retort sharply.
The door rumbles open, and he leads the way past a massive outprocessing area. A mesh fence contains the surly mob of prisoners, lawyers, friends, and relatives who are lined up at three windows where clerks work with listless detachment. It’s like shopping in a department store: one line to place your order, one to pay, and one to pick up the goods.
I recognize several medal dealers in the crowd. Unfortunately the long-haired one recognizes me and lunges at the fence like a wild man, his fingers clawing at the mesh, hair snapping around his face. “Informer! Fucking informer!” he shouts, making the obvious assumption when he sees me with Shevchenko. “We’re not finished with you yet, Katkov!”
I ignore him, hurrying after Shevchenko, who’s at the elevator, impatiently thumbing the call button. “How come that nutcase is getting out, and Viktor isn’t?”
“Because Viktor-the-grifter exploits food.”
“Come on, he’s not a grifter, he’s a speculator. Guys like him are what make free-market economies work.”
“I don’t think I’m up to this, Katkov.”
“You’d better be. You’re going to have to live with it for the rest of your life. The bottom line is—and by the way that’s a term you should become familiar with—instead of prosecuting Viktor, you should set up five more speculators in the meat business.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why?”
“Because more meat will be available, and competition will drive the price down. You know a lot about laws. This one is called supply and demand.”
