Dog Who Bit a Policeman

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

“Now I know you are crazy, Rostnikov.”

  “And you are a dark emperor,” answered the policeman. “Will you be a beetle? Does a headstone with a picture etched on it have any meaning? It will crumble with time. Beetles have been on earth since the beginning of life.”

  “Good-bye, Rostnikov. If you decide you want to work for me, I can make it very worthwhile. That is what you are hinting at, isn’t it?”

  Rostnikov smiled sadly and looked back at the flower-covered grave of the dead Tatar gangster. “Dream,” said Rostnikov, “of miles of twisting pipes in dark walls, or millions of beetles walking slowly on marble floors, their tiny legs scratching in unison. Good morning.”

  Rostnikov turned and limped toward the gate past trees and tombstones, moss-covered dirty mausoleums. Shatalov said to the departing policeman, “We did not kill Lashkovich. We did not kill the other one. I don’t remember his name. We are not trying to start a war, but the one-eyed bastard is. He killed one of my closest … friends.”

  “Chenko, too, claims that he did not kill your man,” said Rostnikov, not turning. “Perhaps I believe you both. Perhaps there is a man who wants you both at war. Think about it when not thinking of beetles, and look around at the face of each of the men who surround you.”

  “Yevgeny Pleshkov did not show up at the casino last night,” Iosef said to Yulia Yalutshkin in her apartment on Kalinin Prospekt.

  Yulia was sitting on the sofa upon which Jurgen had only hours earlier spread his arms in self-satisfied and naked possession. Yulia was wearing pink silk pajamas with a matching silk robe tied at the waist with an equally pink sash. She crossed her legs and reached for a cigarette in a small case on the table in front of her.

  Akardy Zelach sat in the chair that had been offered to Oleg Kisolev the night before. Iosef sat in the matching chair, into which Yevgeny Pleshkov had crumpled after killing the German.

  “He is hiding,” Yulia said, lighting her cigarette and leaning back.

  “From whom?”

  “From you, his family,” she said. “That, of course, is only a guess.”

  The policemen had come early and their knocking had immediately awakened her, but it had no effect on Yevgeny Pleshkov, who slept soundly next to her in the bedroom. Yevgeny was badly in need of a shave. When the knock came at the door, she had risen, put on her robe, and closed the bedroom door. Fortunately, when sleeping off a particularly bad binge, Yevgeny did not snore, at least he seldom did so. If the police searched, they would have no trouble finding the man they sought. He was only about twenty feet away behind a closed door. What troubled Yulia most was that Yevgeny might awaken and blunder into the room.

  Yulia looked relaxed and in no hurry.

  “The German,” Iosef said.

  “Jurgen,” she said. “I would guess that he too is hiding.”

  “Why? From whom?”

  “Enemies,” she said. “When and if you meet him you will understand his ability to make enemies easily.”

  “And you don’t know where he is hiding?”

  She shrugged.

  “I would like to talk to him.”

  “I would not,” she said. “I threw him out last night. I could see he was working himself up to hit me. I’ve had more than enough of that and I had warned him. As he was about to strike me last night, I screamed. I have perfected a scream that would penetrate the walls of the Kremlin and cause the body of Lenin to rise and open his eyes. Jurgen told me to stop, that he was going, that he would not give me another ruble. Confidentially, I gambled away what little he gave me and lived on money from Yevgeny. Jurgen conveniently overlooked the fact that I gave him far more money than he ever gave me. Would you like a drink? Water with ice? Pepsi-Cola?”

  Zelach looked at Iosef, who nodded his consent, and Yulia rose elegantly, crossing the floor to the small refrigerator where she pulled out a bottle of Pepsi, opened it, and poured it over a glass she had half filled with ice.

  She handed the drink to Zelach, who took it with thanks.

  “And you, big policeman? What can I give you?” She stood provocatively over Iosef with the touch of an inviting smile.

  “Yevgeny Pleshkov,” he said. “The German. Do you have either of those or know where I can get them?”

  “Vodka, ginger ale, Pepsi, brandy, whiskey, and even some French wine,” she said, “but I am all out of Yevgeny Pleshkovs and Germans named Jurgen.”

  “A man of Pleshkov’s description was seen entering this building late last night,” said Iosef. “He is a very famous man. People remember him.”

  “I was out,” she said. “At Jacko’s Casino.”

  “I was there,” said Iosef. “I didn’t see you.”

  She shrugged. “We must have missed each other. That is too bad. I would have been happy to entertain you for the evening. I understand that I have a well-developed ability to keep men, and occasionally women, happy, sometimes for an entire night.”

  Zelach shifted uneasily. Iosef went on. “Yevgeny Pleshkov and another man were seen leaving this building two hours after they arrived,” said Iosef. “What did they do for two hours if you were not here?”

  “I must make a note to give the doorman a smaller bonus,” she said, looking at the end of her cigarette.

  “Where were you?” Iosef repeated.

  “Jacko’s and then dinner with some businessmen,” she said, going back to the sofa. “I don’t know their names or where they live. I may have seen them about before.”

  “Can you explain what Yevgeny Pleshkov was doing in this building for two hours?” asked Iosef pleasantly.

  “Perhaps business?” she tried. “Yevgeny knows many people.”

  “I am sure,” said Iosef. “But in this building I think he knows only you.”

  “Then,” she said, “who knows?”

  “Perhaps we will,” said Iosef. “There are twelve uniformed officers checking all the apartments in the building.”

  “Impressive,” she said. “You must want Yevgeny very badly.”

  “Very badly,” said Iosef.

  There was a knock at the door and Yulia gracefully crossed the room to answer it. Iosef thought she looked remarkably beautiful.

  “Inspector Rostnikov, Inspector Zelach,” the young policeman with a thin mustache said, unable to take his eyes from the tall beauty before him. “Please come. We think we have found Yevgeny Pleshkov.”

  “Where?” asked Iosef, rising.

  The young policeman looked at Yulia, unsure of what he should say.

  “Where?” Iosef repeated.

  “A shed on the roof of the hotel,” the young man finally said. “He—the body—is badly burned.”

  “I think,” said Iosef to Yulia, “you had better get dressed. Do not leave the apartment. Inspector Zelach and I will come back shortly to continue our chat. There will be a uniformed officer outside your door.”

  “For my protection?” she said with a smile.

  “Of course,” said Iosef.

  Zelach quickly finished his Pepsi-Cola and placed the glass on the table as he rose.

  Perhaps a second after the door to the apartment had closed and the two policemen had departed, the bedroom door opened and a very sober Yevgeny Pleshkov said, “I heard.”

  “So,” she said, moving past him toward the bedroom and touching his bristly cheek on her way, “you are the brilliant politician, the hope for Russia. What do we do now?”

  Pleshkov had no idea.

  “We had better think quickly,” she said, putting out her cigarette and taking off her pink pajamas.

  Yevgeny Pleshkov headed for the cart containing the liquor bottles.

  “Well,” Yulia said with a sigh. “Let us try what has always worked in the past.”

  “Which is?” asked Pleshkov.

  “Yevgeny,” she said, “you may be a brilliant politician, but you lack common sense. Go in the bathroom. Shave quickly. I’ll get you out of here.” Standing naked and looking quite beautiful to Yevgeny, Yulia beg
an to laugh.

  “What is funny?” he asked.

  “I am an uneducated high-priced prostitute,” she said, “and I am giving orders to the man who may soon rule all of Russia.”

  “You are very beautiful,” Yevgeny said, pouring himself a drink.

  “Let us hope the policeman outside the door agrees.”

  The lobby of the hotel was relatively empty as Elena Timofeyeva headed toward the elevator. Sasha Tkach, she was sure, was still asleep. The night before they had seen a lot and drunk more than a human being should be expected to. They had been guided by Illya and Boris to a lobster dinner at the Anchor in the Palace Hotel—Sasha had never had lobster before and had to watch Elena proceed before he began. Elena had eaten lobster more than once when she had been a student in the United States.

  Both Illya and Boris were accompanied by young women, very young women, professionally made up and wearing dresses that were definitely French designed. The two women had spoken fewer than five or six words each. They smiled politely at jokes and were serious at proper moments. After the dinner, which was liberally accompanied by mixed drinks, the group moved on to three casinos—drinking, gambling, laughing. Elena hadn’t liked it, nor had she liked Boris checking his watch and saying, “It’s time.”

  “For what?” Sasha had said drunkenly.

  “The dogfight,” said Illya. “Now, tonight. Let’s go get your dog.”

  “I thought that was tomorrow,” Elena said.

  Boris leaned toward her, his breath strong and unpleasant, and said, “The fight between your Tchaikovsky and our Bronson is tomorrow night, if they are both in shape. Tonight is just to get the bettors interested. Promotion, hype, like the Americans with boxers.

  It was Sasha’s call, and Elena hoped that he was sober enough to make the right one. She thought of saying something like, “We haven’t prepared our dog for anything tonight,” or “Dmitri wouldn’t risk his prime animal before a big fight.” But she couldn’t speak. She was a woman. Sasha was supposedly the scheming, fearless, and ruthless man.

  “Fine,” said Sasha with a smile, wiping his face with a napkin and tearing the tail off of a shrimp from the huge chilled pile on the table.

  “We had better go now,” said Illya. “After we finish our final drinks. A toast.” He raised his glass. “Mir i Druzhbah, peace and friendship.”

  When his last round of drinks was finished, everyone at the table rose, Sasha reaching for one last shrimp. Neither Boris nor Illya appeared to pay the bill. When the group was out on the street, all six of them climbed into the black limo that appeared at the curb. The failure of the threatened rain to begin falling was beginning to bother Elena. When it finally rained, it might be an omen that something bad was going to happen. It was a thought worthy of Zelach’s mother. Elena shook off the idea. Touches of superstition that were also the legacy of her mother back in Odessa. Anna and her sister, Elena’s mother, had the same general build, the same voice, and almost the same face, but they were nothing alike in background and thought. Elena’s mother was a fish sorter on the docks. She was uneducated and surrounded by demons. Elena had escaped from her mother and her family in Odessa the day she turned eighteen.

  And now Elena was surrounded by demons.

  The three couples were driven to the hastily built kennel in the garage behind a pair of stores on the Arbat. The three men and Elena had gone single file down a narrow passageway between two buildings. The two young women, fearful of ruining their clothes, had remained behind in the car.

  Sasha used his key, went in ahead of them, and turned on the lights.

  Elena and Sasha were not sure of what they would see. The space had been prepared during the day by a quartet of carpenters who were accustomed to doing such jobs for people on both sides of the law, though one of them had commented as they had worked that it was more and more difficult to see the difference. Traffic back and forth between the good guys and the bad had almost erased the line.

  The carpenter who had expressed these beliefs was a set designer and builder for television shows and movies. He took each job without questioning, without asking for reasons.

  Both the criminals and the law considered him a genius, and when Elena looked around the room, which could easily have held three huge twelve-wheel trucks, she found it difficult to keep from examining the brilliant set. After all, she was supposed to have been here at least several times before.

  Along the wall across from the garage doors were a series of large metal cages. In each was a dog. In all there were six dogs. The dogs were silent, which impressed Boris and Illya.

  “Well trained,” said Boris.

  “I have a clever dog trainer from England,” Sasha improvised. “And don’t bother to try to find out who he is. He is my prized possession, more important than the animals. The animals, except for Tchaikovsky, are expendable.”

  A training ring, basically the ring of a small circus, with a red wooden wall circling it, stood in front of the wall at the end of the line of cages. Directly in the center of the garage was an oval exercise area complete with Astroturf. Two doors of the garage were blocked by shelves of items for the care of fighting dogs.

  “No dog food?” said Boris, looking at the shelf.

  “We feed them only fresh raw meat and water with vitamin supplements and injections,” said Sasha, who had no idea what he was talking about.

  Elena had to admit that he was doing a remarkably good job. Alcohol may have blurred his memory but it loosened his imagination.

  “They use the exercise pen,” Sasha said, nodding at the Astroturf-covered ring. “But one at a time. We wouldn’t want valuable dogs killing each other without an audience and the chance to place some bets.”

  Illya nodded in understanding and said, “Let’s go. They’ll be waiting.”

  There were two large wooden free-standing walk-in storage rooms next to the shelves. Elena knew Sasha was trying to figure out which one might hold transport cages for the animals. Perhaps they both did. Perhaps neither. He walked slowly and a bit unsteadily on his feet to the storage room on his right. He opened the padlocked door with his key and stepped in. Elena was right behind him, as were Illya and Boris.

  There were no cages. The small space held an old but still-humming refrigerator and cleaning instruments to take care of the dog refuse. The tools looked used. Sasha went to the refrigerator, opened it, and marveled that his lie about raw meat was supported by the evidence inside the cold, lighted box. There were dozens of half-gallon-sized plastic containers through the sides of which raw, red meat could be clearly seen.

  “Good,” said Sasha, closing the door and turning to the others. “Lokanski prepared a new supply.”

  “We are in a hurry,” Boris said impatiently.

  “I take care of my dogs,” Sasha said indignantly.

  “Get a cage,” said Illya. “Let’s go.”

  Sasha moved to the next padlocked storage room and once again took out the keys he had been given. Elena controlled her near panic. If a transport cage were not inside, Sasha would be very hard pressed to come up with an explanation for why he did not know where things were in his own kennel. Relying on his drunken forgetfulness would not work with these men. Elena tried to think of what she could do, but she was still certain that her intervention would not be appreciated by the two men. They had pointedly ignored her all evening, and she had accepted their rudeness with gratitude. She did not have to speak any more than the two young mannequins who were waiting in the car parked on the Arbat.

  Sasha opened the door of the second storage room, stepped in, and reached up for the string that turned on the light. Stacked on the far wall were six metal-mesh cages with handles on top. Hanging almost carelessly on the wall on hooks were a wide variety of ropes, muzzles, things she could not identify and was certain Sasha could not either. One other item hung on the wall, one Elena and Sasha both recognized, an electric prod.

  Sasha, with some difficulty which requir
ed him to ask Boris and Illya to help, got down a top cage and said, “Gentlemen, we are late.”

  Sasha, she could see, had glanced at the wall of dog-control items, possibly considering if he should take one, for he had no idea of how to get the pit bull into the cage. He rejected the idea and, carrying the cage awkwardly, had moved past a curious rottweiler, a pair of large mongrels, a German shepherd, and a sleeping St. Bernard, toward the pit bull. Elena was relieved that there was only one pit bull in the garage.

  Moving to the front of the cage of the pit bull, who stood looking into the face of the man, Sasha lifted the door which covered the entire front of the transport cage. He pushed the open cage in front of Tchaikovsky’s cage, which he opened, lifting the sliding door slowly.

  Now, the difficult part: getting the pit bull to go into the transport cage. The dog did not move. Sasha was supposed to be the expert. He had to get the animal in the transport cage and do it quickly without destroying his cover as Dmitri Kolk.

  “You need help, Dmitri?”

  Elena could tell from the look on his face that for a moment he did not remember that he was Dmitri. Then he recovered and said, “No, I have my own methods for doing things. If I need anything, it is another small drink.”

  Sasha’s improvised method was to squat behind the transport cage and talk to the dog the way Elena had seen him talk to his baby son. Elena thought quickly about finding a weapon if they were unmasked. She decided that the best, though riskiest, thing to do would be to kick the transport cage out of the way and let Tchaikovsky free to attack, hoping he would go for Illya and Boris. But miraculously the pit bull quick-stepped into the smaller cage and Sasha dropped the door, trying not to show his relief.

  Illya had to help carry the animal to the car. There were metal grips on each of the top corners of the cage, which made the task easier. Tchaikovsky stood all the way to the car, maintaining his balance and dignity.

  The limousine was large, but with six people and a dog there was not a great deal of room. They placed the cage next to the driver, who looked straight ahead and made no comment or response. The two beautiful young women ignored the animal and Elena, and talked softly to each other as they rode. Boris and Illya pressed Sasha for information about his operation. Since he had no information and was obviously thinking about the coming battle, Sasha did not want to make up any more tales.