Dog Who Bit a Policeman

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  The trio on the low stage began another piece.

  “Brahms,” Sarah whispered.

  Brahms would be most appropriate, Rostnikov thought as he smelled the clean sweet hair of the child on his lap.

  The children were both asleep in the living room and, thank whatever gods there may be, Lydia Tkach was not in the apartment.

  Sasha sat next to Maya on the bed. Neither spoke. Neither reached out to touch the other. There was a night chill of impending Moscow rain in the air. People were going nearly mad waiting for the rain that refused to come. Maya wore flannel pajamas Sasha had given her for her birthday two years earlier. Sasha was in his white boxer shorts and the extra-large Totenham Hotspurs soccer shirt he had confiscated from a shipment of illegally imported goods from England a few months earlier. The three suitcases were on the floor in the corner. They were closed, waiting, threatening.

  “Something has happened to me, Maya,” he said.

  She said nothing. He went on.

  “I would normally be depressed now, afraid of losing you and the children, dreading the need to face my mother, cursing my work. But I’m not. I feel calm, as if the things that usually get to me are not important. I don’t want you to go. I will surely weep. But if you must, I’ll try to understand. You surely have reason to leave.”

  “You are reacting to being alive when you should be dead, Sasha,” she said softly, her head down. “Lydia is right. You should try to do something less dangerous, but I know you will not.”

  She was right.

  “Maya, I did it again. The weakness came. I became a different person, Dmitri Kolk, criminal.”

  “You were with a woman,” said Maya. “I knew. I could tell from the guilt in your voice on the phone. Did she have a name?”

  “Tatyana,” he said.

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Thin, but pretty, yes.”

  “Did you have to do it? Would the people you were with be suspicious if you didn’t?”

  “Maybe. No,” Sasha said, “I was drunk. I was playing a role. Forgive me if you can, but I was enjoying playing that role.”

  Maya turned her head toward him. “Sasha, you just told me the truth.”

  “I know.”

  “You have always lied in the past.”

  “Yes. I told you. Something has changed. Don’t go, Maya.”

  “Twenty-two days’ trial,” she said. “I’m not threatening you, Sasha. It just seems reasonable, enough time to see if you’ve really changed.”

  “Twenty-two days,” he said. “An odd number.”

  “I took a leave from work,” she said. “I have twenty-two days. We can spend time together. I’m not sure I have much hope. I’ll call my office in the morning and say I might like to come back. They’ll be happy to have me. No one else knows the billing system program.”

  Maya worked for the Council for International Business Advancement. She liked the job. She did not want to lose it. She would decide what to do about the Japanese businessman when the need to decide arose. What she would do would depend primarily on Sasha.

  “Would you like to get under the covers and make love?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I still love and want you,” she said, “I’m just not sure I can live with you.”

  “I would like very much to make love. The moment you asked the question, I was immediately … I love you, Maya.”

  “I know, Sasha Tkach,” she said. “But that is not enough.”

  Iosef sat in his small, comfortable one-room apartment trying to read a play by a new writer named Simsonevski. Simsonevski had three plays produced in the last year, all in the little theaters in storefronts or the back rooms of shoe stores or churches. Iosef had seen all of the plays, liked none of them. The one in his lap—he was wearing only his underwear and a plain white T-shirt—was even more grim than the others. There had been one suicide, one murder of a husband by a wife, one young woman going insane (with a stage note indicating that she should bite off her tongue), and a soldier who has an epileptic seizure onstage.

  Iosef laughed. It was that or cry, but on balance the laugh was called for. He put aside the play knowing he would not pick it up again. It was very late but he thought he would try to find something on television, anything but the news.

  He could not match the tragedies of Simsonevski’s play but he could beat it for simple irony. First, the Yak had purposely allowed Yevgeny Pleshkov to go free of a crime he surely committed. The Yak was not one to take bribes. From what Iosef could see, Yaklovev was not interested in material things. Porfiry Petrovich had told him that the Yak lived alone and simply. His wardrobe each day confirmed this in part. No, money was not the culprit in this injustice. Did Pleshkov or the woman have something on the Yak? Iosef didn’t think the Yak would stand for blackmail even if they did have something. He would find a way out. It was something Iosef would discuss tomorrow with his father.

  But the problem of the Pleshkov case was less vexing than Iosef’s embarrassment over arresting the man in the courtyard outside of Anna Timofeyeva’s window. The man proved to be the woman’s brother, a construction worker, not the woman’s husband. Anna had been right about who the woman was, but Iosef had now revealed that her place of hiding and change of name were known. They had alerted her, and she would alert her fugitive husband.

  Anna Timofeyeva slept through the capture, and when she was told about it when she awakened, she shook her head and said, “You should have awakened me. I know what the husband looks like.”

  That was all she said. She asked them if they wanted tea, which she disliked but drank because she thought it might be good for her. As Anna had moved toward the stove, Iosef and Elena declined the offer of tea and told her that they planned to marry.

  Anna went to the small sink in the corner, filled her teapot with water, and turned on the gas on the stove.

  “I know,” Anna said.

  “How would you?” asked Elena, standing next to Iosef. “I didn’t know he would ask. I didn’t know I would say yes.”

  “I knew,” said Anna, rummaging for a tea she might find drinkable.

  “You approve?” asked Elena.

  “I approve,” said Anna, making a choice of teas, the least of the four evils on the shelf.

  “When?”

  “We haven’t discussed that,” said Iosef.

  “No,” said Anna, pushing the tea she had selected back in the narrow cupboard over the sink.

  “No?” asked Elena.

  “Tonight I take you both out for dinner,” she said. “An old woman with a bad heart, a young woman with a bad arm, and a man who has made a fool of himself. The perfect trio for celebrating. I still have friends, even a friend or two with a restaurant.”

  And they had celebrated at an Uzbekistani restaurant where Anna knew the owner, a former cabinet minister who had once needed the help of the stern procurator.

  They had eaten well—tkhum-duma, boiled egg inside a fried meat patty; mastava, a rice soup with chopped meat; maniar, a strong broth with ground meat, egg, and bits of rolled-out dough; a shashlik marinated and broiled over hot coals. They had laughed, though Elena was in pain from time to time, and they had made some preliminary plans. She had said that she would like to wait a few months before a wedding, to be sure they had not been carried away by a romantic moment. This seemed reasonable to Iosef.

  By the time he got to his room, it was too late to call his parents.

  Iosef’s stomach was contentedly full. That, and Elena’s acceptance of him made it just a bit easier to face the embarrassment at Petrovka in the morning.

  Iosef’s room had theater posters on each of the four walls, bright theater posters except for the one for the self-indulgent play Iosef had written and starred in. That poster held a place of prominence to remind him that he was not a playwright. He had a two-cushion, sturdy yellow sofa with black trim, two chairs, a worn but still colorful handmade Armenian rug that covered most of the
floor, and a desk in one corner. The couch opened into a bed in which Iosef slept. There were three bright floor lamps, one black-painted steel, one a mock Tiffany, and the third a brass monstrosity from the 1950s. The room was bright. Next to the desk was a small table on which the television sat. The rest of the wall space on all four walls was filled by floor-to-ceiling bookcases he had made himself.

  He supposed that after he and Elena were married, this is where they would live.

  It could have been worse. He had his own toilet and shower behind the door off the kitchen area. The sink, toilet, and shower functioned perfectly since Porfiry Petrovich had worked on them.

  Tomorrow, when he was the object of jokes at Petrovka, he would concentrate on thoughts of his and Elena’s future. There was no doubt that word of his calling out a squad to arrest an innocent construction worker would be all over the building, and that there were some who would make lame jokes about the event.

  Think of Elena, he told himself, removing the pillows from the couch and opening it into a bed. Think about telling your father and mother. He finished making the bed, propped up his pillows, and turned on the television. There was nothing worth watching. He turned it off and then turned off the lights.

  Tomorrow he would ask Elena if she had changed her mind, tell her that he would understand. He was certain she would not change her mind and that she had already taken plenty of time to decide.

  Overall, thought Iosef, it had been a good day.

  He lay back in his bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

  Emil Karpo sat at the desk in his cell-like room, entering new data in his black book on the new Mafias. Even though he had a computer, Karpo did not fully trust it. He had heard tales of computers losing data, breaking down, crashing in bad weather. He would enter the data on the computer tomorrow night.

  Karpo was fully dressed, scrubbed clean with rough soap, teeth brushed, face shaved.

  He wrote his last word for the night, closed the book, and turned to look at the painting of Mathilde Verson on the wall. Emil Karpo had only one bright image in his dark room, the painting of Mathilde, the reminder of a great failure.

  Emil Karpo needed the smiling image of Mathilde on the wall to remind him that she had been real. Her red hair was flowing, her cheeks were white. Karpo’s memory held the black-and-white images of hundreds of criminals, but they were flat, dead images.

  He turned away from the painting, rose, removed all his clothes, and hung them neatly in his closet. Everything in the closet with the exception of the few things Mathilde had bought for him were black. He closed the closet door and moved naked to the cot. Before he turned off his single light next to the cot, he tried to imagine Raisa Munyakinova in her holding cell. He could not. He simply knew she was there.

  She had done no more than he had considered. Mathilde had been gunned down on the street between two Mafias. Raisa’s son had been torn by bullets. But Karpo was certain he would not be able to kill as she had. His belief in Communism was gone. Mathilde was gone. All he had was the daily solace of doing his job, a job that would never end.

  He turned off the light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT WAS RAINING, FINALLY IT was raining, a light but insistent morning rain.

  The Yak stood at the window of his office, hands clasped behind him, looking into the Petrovka courtyard below.

  “You will turn over all of your notes on the dogfights, the killings, and the foreigners you have arrested to me,” said the Yak. “This is now an international issue and I shall present it to the proper agencies of investigation. You have done a good job, as usual, Chief Inspector Rostnikov.”

  Rostnikov was seated behind the dark conference table in his usual seat. He was slowly drawing pictures of birds in flight. He imagined that one of them was Peter Nimitsov.

  “As for the Pleshkov investigation,” Yaklovev said, his back still turned, “there are some irregularities, but the case is closed. Your son has done an excellent job. Please prevail on him to go on quietly to his next assignment. Tell him that his mistake yesterday in calling out the special squad is of no consequence.”

  “I will,” said Rostnikov. “He will find the ham thief.”

  “Finally,” the Yak said, turning to face the man whose eyes and pencil were fixed on the notebook before him. “The Mafia killings. They continue. They grow worse. But you have taken into custody someone who committed some of the murders. We can inform the media, give her name.”

  “A mistake,” said Rostnikov without raising his eyes.

  “Mistake? I’ve read the report from you and Emil Karpo. What is the mistake?”

  “She didn’t do it,” said Rostnikov. “Mistakes can be made, as they clearly were in the case of the prominent Yevgeny Pleshkov.”

  Silence except for the rain hitting the window.

  “I see,” said the Yak. “All right. The woman is of no consequence to me. What do you intend to do to insure that she …?”

  “She has relatives in Odessa,” said Rostnikov, “but I don’t think she will leave the grave of her child.”

  “Would she go to Odessa if the body of her son were moved with her and a reasonably impressive headstone placed over his grave?” asked the Yak.

  “Perhaps, yes, I think so. I will have to ask her.”

  “Do so,” said the director, moving behind his desk. “If she decides to cooperate, and I’d like you to be your most persuasive, tell Pankov that I want him to make the necessary financial arrangements.”

  Rostnikov closed his notebook, put his pencil in his pocket, and stood up. It was the director’s turn to look down at the work on his desk, pen in hand.

  “Your wife,” he said. “I understand that she did not need the surgery.”

  The fact that the Yak knew did not surprise Rostnikov.

  “Fortunately not.”

  “Good,” said Yaklovev. “I am not without compassion, Porfiry Petrovich. I may have little of it, but that which I do have I husband and give out only to those I respect.”

  “Thank you, Director Yaklovev. Will that be all?”

  “New assignments tomorrow,” said the Yak. “New successes. New enemies. That will be all today.”

  The cemetery was empty except for two badly matched figures, a man in a black raincoat and a hood and a woman in a raincoat of crackling gray plastic.

  They walked together to the sound of pounding rain, knowing where they were going. They had been there before, the grave of Valentin Lashkovich. In the day since they had last been here, a headstone, life size, with an image of Lashkovich etched in the dark stone, had replaced the old one. Lashkovich on the stone was thinner than he had been in life, his dark suit nicely pressed.

  The flowers on the grave were fresh, bright and varied, though the rain was beating down the petals. There were many wreaths and bouquets. The grave was completely covered with brightness. As in the deaths of other Mafia members, Emil Karpo knew the number of flowers would dwindle till, in less than a week, there would be none.

  Raisa and Karpo looked down at the, grave, their feet growing wet as the rain soaked the ground.

  Karpo leaned over, gathered an armful of flowers, and handed them to Raisa. He took an even bigger armful. Then the woman led the way as the rain came down even harder.

  The grave she led him to was in a far corner where the graves were close together and there were only stones set flat in the ground with the names of the dead chipped neatly but simply into them.

  The one for Raisa’s son was no different than the dozens of others.

  Karpo knelt and placed his armload of flowers on the small grave. Raisa did the same. Mathilde was buried in another place and time, and flowers from the grave of a killer would never do. But Raisa did not seem to mind.

  “The sky is crying for my child. It waited for me to be able to come here and cry with it.”

  She expected no answer and received none.

  The two stood over the grave as the rain seeped th
rough their protective covering. They said nothing. There was nothing that either of them wished to say. They stood for almost forty minutes, when the rain suddenly stopped.