Page 15 of The Bratva’s Monster

This place is a dive. The floor sticks to the bottom of my shoes and the tables are stained with water rings and pieces of peanuts from half-eaten bowls that sit as centerpieces. There’s a low hum of flies sweeping the room like helicopter pilots and a row of dirty glasses at one end of the bar itself.

Populating this hole of a business are about five or six guys in the back, talking shit and shooting pool, and about three men sitting at the bar itself. The bartender has his arms crossed, watching a baseball game on the television just above and to the left of him like the three men at the bar.

I recognize the haircut of one of them. Tapered fade with thick, gelled black hair. Wearing a black T-shirt and jeans with arms tatted up with images of Russian symbols, buildings, and words that I can only make out parts of.

That’s the guy with all the answers. I walk up to the bar and stand next to the stool to the left of him. The bartender acknowledges me and asks, “What do you need?”

“Vodka straight.”

He nods and makes my drink. I glance next to me at my guy. He’s seated, leaning into the counter while he watches the game, beer in hand. Looks like this is a regular haunt for him.

It had better not be. Not on this side of town.

The bartender slides the drink over to me. I pay for it, then take a quick drink from the glass. “Didn’t know they let Irkutsk scum in this place,” I say in Russian.

The man next to me stiffens slightly, then he turns in his stool and glares at me. In English, he says, “What did you say?”

I drink my vodka. “You heard me.”

He scoffs. In Russian, he says, “And who the fuck are you?”

Drink’s half gone. I finish it in one swig. “I’m a Rostov monster,” I say back at him, then in English, “and you’re on the wrong side of town.”

“I go wherever the fuck I want,” he replies.

“You think so, huh? You think you can just have a drink in a bar on the wrong side of town and talk to women you’re not supposed to be talking to?”

He snickers and turns back to his beer. “You saw that, huh? So it’s true. Rostovs do have eyes everywhere uptown.” He takes a big swig from the bottle, then looks me up and down. “I never heard anybody talk about hiring muscle to do Sovietnik shit. Sounds like your guy’s a little paranoid. Scared you’re going to get jumped for hiding in the dark like a little bitch.”

“I’m no sovietnik,” I say to him. “I already told you who I am.”

He stares, and maybe it’s mild recognition behind his eyes. Maybe not. He finishes his beer and sets it down. “Right. A monster. That supposed to be your nickname or something?”

He’s turned fully now, and the air around us has changed. It’s a slight shift, barely perceptible by anyone not paying attention. But I feel it. The hairs stick up on the back of my neck as I notice the bartender casually stepping down to the other end of the bar, far away from us. Behind us, the guys at the pool table are watching us, but not obviously. The conversation has lowered and I see a couple of them shooting glances our way.

“Or something,” I respond to him.

He nods. “You here to chase me back across the border or something?”

“You could say that. Before I do, though, I’d love to know what the fuck you’re doing here in the first place. Your leader’s in the ground. Shouldn’t you be busy holding your new boss’s dick while he gets used to his new position?”

His smile slides off his face. “What I’m doing here is none of your business.”

“Yeah, well…” I stand up and take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves. “Since you’re trespassing, I’m making it my business.” The guys at the pool table have all stopped to watch, their eyes trained on me. Looks like this little shit was smart enough to travel in a pack. Not that it matters much to me.

“Now, you and me can talk, or you, me, and all your little friends back there can fight,” I say. “I’m fine either way.”

He scoffs again and says, “You talk mad shit for a dude who’s outnumbered.”

I crack my neck. “Fight it is, then.”

The guys at the back of the bar abandon the pool game and start walking toward us. The bartender’s backed completely out from behind the bar and has darted out of sight, behind a service door right next to the bar, and the other patrons are all making a beeline for the door as quickly as they can. I’ll have to deal with him later. Letting these sons of bitches squat in our territory is going to have to be answered for.

But one thing at a time. The first one to reach us is a bald one in a white tank top, his tats displayed down both arms like subway graffiti. He puts a hand on my guy’s shoulder. “Josef, this dubina bothering you?”

Josef glances over at him and his smile broadens. “Looks like if you want to fight me, you gotta go through my buddies.” He stands up and says, “See, the brother of a Pakhan doesn’t travel alone. Least not if they’re Irkutsk. We move in packs, Brother.”

“You move like bitches scared of your own shadows,” I reply. “And I’m not your brother.”