Burn Artist

by James Osiris Baldwin

  “Eh?” He looked down at it. “What’s this?”

  “To stop you from gaining a curse mark, if Kovacs decides to target you.” I folded his fingers around it, and held them until I felt him grasp it properly. “I have one for Rodya as well, but… you should keep this discreet. Under your clothes, and don’t tell anyone. If I were prudent, I’d have made one for Lev or Nicolai instead. As far as they know, I only created the one for Rodion.”

  Vassily glanced toward the door as we shuffled forward a few steps. “I don’t want to shit on your ability or anything, but it uh… this kind of jewelry didn’t work real well for Slava.”

  “He already had the curse,” I said. “It was like giving a man a shield after he’d been stabbed. This will stop the curse from gaining a foothold.”

  “Makes sense. Prevention’s better than cure, right?” Vassily’s lips quirked at the corners. He obligingly passed the braided red string over his head and tucked it and the talisman under his shirt. “You need blood for this?”

  “No. I already have some of yours stored, and I bound the original amulet to my own blood. These two pendants are linked to me, so that they draw off my power in the event of an incident. It will allow me to track where the spell is coming from. I’m wearing the one I gave to Slava, so I’m trusting my own life to these as well.”

  “You don’t have to explain it any, Lexi. I believe you if you say it’ll work. I know you watch out for me.” Vassily clapped my shoulder. “You’re a good friend. You know that?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You are. You’re… I just realized I never really said it out loud.” Vassily laughed a short, awkward laugh. “I mean, you always look out for me and everything, and I’m this giant man-child, basically, so…”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I replied. “Don’t be an idiot. Being your friend is not a burden.”

  Vassily’s face suffused with a vivid smile. “Can’t you just take a compliment for once in your life?”

  I glanced at his eyes, saw that he was looking at me, and dropped my gaze to his shoes instead. He laughed, whapped me between the shoulders again, and then led me toward the doorman and his clipboard.

  We entered a crowded party in full swing, a cacophony of lop-sided noise that made my burst eardrum throb painfully. Even with the summer heat, the crowd was made up almost entirely of leather jackets, suits and black tracksuits. The Brighton Beach Organizatsiya was here, all fifty-odd men save for a few apologies. Many of our associates - the Sixers who helped us with everything from medical care to accountancy and industrial cleaning - were accounted for, as was the waterfront arm of the Organizatsiya, the managers of AEROMOR and the Red Hook Maritime Union. They’d brought their family and friends, along with at least fifteen made men from two different Mafia families. Security was intense, though discreet. Here and there, I saw the half-hidden muzzle of a H&K glint under the edge of a suit jacket.

  “Ho! Our Magus and our Little Snake! Been a while since I saw you boys somewhere other than Sirens, haha. How's it goin’ in the office?” The manager of AEROMOR and Kommandant of Red Hook, Vanya Kazupov, was an obese, beaky-nosed and abrasive man. He wobbled his way across to us as we cleared the gauntlet of dark-suited bodyguards and enforcers, hand extended. Vassily pulled his gloves off, but I kept mine on as we all shook politely and kissed cheeks. I grimaced as I almost touched his sweaty skin and pulled away as quickly as politeness allowed for. He reeked of liquor.

  "It'll be a whole lot better once Alexi's done the paperwork tomorrow." Vassily forced a smile as he lay a hand on my arm. "So, where's the boss at?"

  "Rodya? Where do you think?" Vanya laughed at himself again, a sound that never failed to set my teeth on edge. "He's in that room with the bear and the decorations... there's games at the bar going on."

  "Games? Fuck yes. Come on, Lexi, let's go kick ass at poker." The reassuring weight left, and Vassily began to weave through the crowd. People moved for him in a way they never did for me, and I gave Vanya a stiff, rueful little nod as I trailed off down the empty path that my far taller, far more charismatic friend left in his wake.

  I couldn't deny it... I was dispirited. My self-esteem had taken a hit after the previous night, and now that we were here, it was impossible to shrug off the pall as we passed knots of chatting, laughing people. The room was rich with the smell of food. As Vassily stopped to talk, I snagged canapes off a passing tray and set about relieving my depression with little bites of thick bacon and mustard cream on crunchy toast.

  Rodion was going to find out that I’d fucked up somehow, somewhen. It would be better if I told him first, but as we passed the gift table and drew up to the ring of laughing, chattering people, it occurred to me through the sleep-deprived fugue that it was probably better that I didn’t mention it tonight. It was bad luck to talk about negative things at a party, and how much less impressed would he be if I ruined his birthday with bad news? If nothing else, that excuse would give me time to think of a better way of framing my report.

  My decision was uncertain, at first, but rapidly cemented as we pushed upstairs and found Rodion playing poker with Nicolai, Semyon, and Grigori. Our Avtoritet looked happy and lively, sitting next to my father at the table. Grigori seemed practically jocular, but he looked up at me and his eyes darkened, it was very clear that our spat the night before was still playing on his mind.

  “Vasya!” Rodion stood to greet him as we closed in on the table. “My main man! That painting is amazing… I could hardly believe my eyes!”

  “I saw it, and knew it was yours.” Vassily kissed cheeks and shook hands easily. “You know, I didn’t even know that James Dean painted anything before I went looking for memorabilia.”

  “Yeah, he was real talented.” Rodion’s turned wistful, an odd expression on a man with a face as bullish as his. “He did all kinds of shit. Painting, racing, drawing…”

  Rodion’s amulet was burning a hole in my pocket, but I waited without interrupting while Vassily got him talking. Watching him at parties was like watching a dolphin sport in the ocean. He was a natural in places like this. I was not. People had too many moving parts that were confusing at best and obnoxious at worst.

  “- Alexi brought you something, too. Alexi?”

  I started out of my rumination at the sound of my name to find Vassily paused, eyebrows arched, and Rodion and looking at me inquisitively.

  “Oh, yes.” Belatedly, I fished around for the amulet and pulled it out. “I didn’t wrap it, Avtoritet, because you I thought you’d want it immediately. It will protect you from gaining the curse. It should also be marked with some of your blood.”

  “You don’t say?” Rodion handled the hand of Fatima pendant the way someone might handle a live grenade. “Thanks. You got the knife on you?”

  Of course I had the knife. I drew the little obsidian blade, and motioned for his wrist. Rodion didn’t hesitate to give it to me, and I drew barely a drop of blood that I discreetly scraped on the surface of the amulet. As I did, I felt it flare to life, stirring the pendant that pressed in against my chest. My confidence lifted a little.

  His brow creased, eyes dark and worried. “So uh… you’re sure I won’t go out like Slava did?”

  “I’m sure,” I replied, dropping my voice. “Wear it as long as Eric Kovacs is alive, and for a week after his departure in case he has set up any delayed spells that trigger after he’s gone.”

  “Kovacs?” My Avtoritet licked his lip and leaned in toward me. “You have a name for him now?”

  “Yes, sir.” I nodded a little. “We can discuss it later.”

  “Get him. I want it done within the week,” he hissed back. “We’ll definitely be talking.”

  Instinct caused me to glance away while he was speaking. Grigori was glowering at us from Rodya’s other side, his jaws clenched, eyes as flat and murderous as a shark’s. The expression fluidly returned to warm mirth as Rodion turned and focused back on his brigada, rejoining the game a
s if nothing had transpired between us.

  “I’m going downstairs,” Vassily said. “I want to go see how much caviar mousse I can fit in my mouth at one time.”

  “I haven’t had anything with caviar in quite a while, so…” I trailed off as I glimpsed a swirl of black skirt at the bar. It was Crina, the dancer from Wednesday night. A pleasant little flutter passed through my chest. Here was a chance to be seen in the company of a woman, in public, under lights where everyone I knew could observe us. “Actually, I’ll stay here for the time being.”

  “Eh?” Vassily followed my gaze, and his face flickered through a complex expression I couldn’t read. “Oh, right. I see. Well, go get her, man. I’ll be up later.”

  Crina was half-leaning, half sitting on a stool against the bar, lost in thought and only smiling whenever someone looked in her direction. She was dressed 1950s style - a flared black dress and rolled hair - but it was her shoes that really caught my eye. She was wearing a pair of spit-shined, two tone Oxford pumps with very high heels. I usually only noticed female beauty belatedly, but the shoes and her poise in them stirred some dark, hidden part of my psyche. I cleared my throat and straightened my jacket, and then went to join her. She turned her head as I pulled up at the bar, and this time, I thought her smile reached her eyes a little more.

  “Well, hello there.” Crina spoke first, leaning back on her stool. She was smoking a clove cigarette in a long holder. “I remember you.”

  “And I you.” I struggled not to look at her feet, but it was an effort. “Thought I’m surprised you’d remember anyone from the money pit, given how busy you were on your first night.”

  She bit her lip with a low sound of amusement, poking a straw at the cherry in her drink. It was something bright red served in a martini glass, and it looked sweet. “Well, usually you’d be right, but it’s not every night that I see a man with eyes like yours. Is that your real color?”

  “It is,” I replied. “I was worried you remembered me because I’m short.”

  She laughed, and held her hand out to me. Mariya had always told me to kiss a girl’s hand when she offered it, but that felt far too intimate, so I shook it as I would have done a man’s. “Everyone looks pretty much the same height from the stage, to tell you the truth. What’s your name?”

  “Alexi.”

  “Crina.” Her square face suffused with quiet pleasure. “My stage name. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I’m comfortable with mystery. Every woman in the world has a right to her secrets,” I replied.

  Her lips twitched with mischief, and she glanced at my gloved hands. “And every man has a right to his?”

  She thought I was hiding hand tattoos, which meant she knew about the nature of the club management. Interesting. “Absolutely.”

  “You know, I was wondering if you were some kind of ghost,” Crina said. “One moment you were there, all pale and still, and then the next you weren’t.”

  I inclined my head. “Behind every man now alive stand 30 ghosts, for that is the ratio by which the dead outnumber the living.”

  Crina’s eyes lit up with delight and recognition, and suddenly, my interest in her deepened. “That’s Arthur C. Clarke. 2001: A Space Odyssey.”

  “Did you read the book, or see the film?”

  “Both,” she replied. “I like science fiction.”

  I sucked on one of my teeth for a moment. “Well, if you’re not on call, would you like to find a booth to talk further? I really don’t like large crowds or liquor, and the bar has both.”

  “I’m drinking a mocktail as we speak,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs. There’s a dining room on the third floor that’s a bit quieter than this place.”

  I looked back to Rodion and company, and felt a twinge of duty. He had physical protection, but if something magical were to happen… “I can’t leave this room, unfortunately, but one of those booth tables near the stairwell would be ideal.”

  “Suits me.” Crina slid from her stool, and happily took the lead away from the bar. She sashayed ahead of me across the floor. I could finally watch her feet under proper light, and didn’t fail to be impressed. She had good taste in a lot of things, it seemed.

  We found out seats, and promptly and easily fell into conversation over a carafe of kompot and the plates of food that passed us by. I found Crina easy to talk to. She reminded me of Mariya, and because of that, the rituals of chivalry came readily enough. We talked books, Glasnost, the sorcerous assassination of President Rutherford in 1983 and the formation of the Vigiles Magicarum, and her eloquence rapidly put me at ease - not something I was used to when talking with strangers. Crina kept her personal details and life firmly out of our talk, which suited me just fine, but I was certain that she was well-educated and had left Europe out of necessity, not necessarily out of desire.

  The Tea Room was boozy and delirious around us by the time Vassily came back up the stairs. He was weaving a little, cheerfully drunk as he plopped down beside me and threw an arm around my shoulders.

  “Well hey, this isn’t something you see every day.” He grinned rakishly. “Look, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I have to talk business with my main man here. Mind if I borrow him?”

  Crina laughed, a little awkwardly, and looked to me. “I’m… fairly certain that’s up to Alexi.”

  “Business is what it is.” My stomach jerked unpleasantly. Had something happened downstairs? I looked back to see that the poker table had been vacated, and a new group of people were playing cards. Rodion was at the bar, talking to two older men in pin-stripe suits who had the reptilian composure of old mobsters. The others had vanished into the elevator without my noticing. I turned back to Crina, and drew a deep breath. “Well, Crina, I enjoyed talking with you for the evening. Are you continuing at Sirens?”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” Crina said. “Lev wanted to start me on a couple of slower days. He wasn’t sure the regulars would like my act.”

  “Oh he of little faith,” Vassily intoned. He put a hand to his heart. “I thought your dancing was elegant AND sexy. Even fifty-fifty split.”

  “Thank you. You’re sweet.” She smiled pleasantly, but the openness she’d had during our conversation was already sealed away behind her carefully painted mask.

  “And Alexi here, man, he went nuts for it. If you’re good enough to crack this shell, you’ll be a millionaire before the month is over.” Vassily began to tug me toward the end of the booth. His sudden and forceful physicality made me stiffen, but I ended up going with him anyway. “What are you going to be doing for the rest of the evening, ma’am?”

  “Rodion.” Her eyes danced with hidden mirth as she got to her feet.

  Vassily managed to chuckle and snort at the same time, while I coughed, getting to my feet.

  “Godspeed, good lady.” Vassily saluted her. “Needless to say, I don’t envy your position. Any of them.”

  “He’s fine. He’s a good man.” She laughed. “I hope I see you around, Alexi.”

  We watched her stride away. I frowned a little. “Did she just use me to pass the time?”

  “Pfft. She’s a hooker. Who knows.” Vassily pulled on my sleeve. “Come on, man, let’s go outside.”

  We went down the stairs, sidling between people on their way up, and emerged into the most raucous part of the party. I had an earplug in my good ear and could hardly hear out of the other, but the physical vibration of the music drilled right into the nerves in my back teeth.

  The street was comparatively cool, leaden with humidity and the lingering, radiant warmth trapped in the concrete. There was now a smaller party going on out here. The old gopniki jailbirds were out here, squatting along the edge of the gutter like a line of crows. Nicolai, my father, Ovar and Mo – two of the security guys and protection racket toughs – and three of the Red Hook union guys were drinking, smoking, and laughing uproariously at something we’d just missed. Knowing them, it probably involved guns, their dicks, or things they
did while in prison together. Vassily and I moved down the street a ways and stood under the shadow of a dark green awning, where he lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall.

  “What’s the problem?” I watched him, hands jammed in my pockets.

  “Nothing specific, to be honest.” Vassily drew on his smoke with a low sound of pleasure. “Well, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “What?” I frowned. “I… that makes absolutely no sense. Do you or don’t you know?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You seemed to be getting along great with that girl.” He laughed uncomfortably, fidgeting with his hands. “Think you’ll take her home?”

  “No.” I pursed my lips, annoyed. “So the business you so urgently needed to talk about was a drunken ramble on my lack of a sex life? Again?”

  There was a loud whoop from down the road. He paused, and both of us looked over to see our brat’ye setting a beat with their hands while Nicolai did his best to dance within their circle. Further down the road, there was a large and loud group of black kids coming down the road from the corner, ten or eleven mixed men and women. A bad combination, though it wasn’t the newcomers that raised the hackles on my neck. All the men celebrating outside were drunk, prickly and intensely racist.

  “Nah, that’s not it.” Vassily broke the moment of alarm, waving his hand as he struggled for his words. “It’s the court thing on Monday, I guess.”

  “I thought you weren’t worried about it?”

  He ran his hand back through his thick hair. “Well, I’m not. It’s just like… the possibility, you know? And if I was sent to the slammer-”

  “You’re not going to prison.”

  “If I was going to prison, it would be for the stupidest fucking thing possible. Money laundering? Credit cards? Corporate credit cards, no less. After all the shit we’ve done, that’s what I was nabbed for? The totally bloodless shit.” He sniffed, eyes narrowing. “I bet the Fed wouldn’t care half as much if you or me were killed, or if one of those chicks down there got raped or something. I’ve heard of guys getting six months for a rape, and you know what I’m facing? Ten fucking years for credit fraud. Says something about the world, doesn’t it?”